


Whole Again

by RavenMJagonshi



Series: Redemption, Rebirth,...another 'R' word [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Axolotl (Gravity Falls) - Freeform, Bill Cipher's Backstory, Bill is Stan, Columbia - Freeform, Depression, Drug Cartel, Extremely Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, Graphic Violence, Grunkle Stan's Backstory, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Illusions to Drug Use, Incest, Intimacy, Kinda, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Past Prostitution, Possessive Behavior, Same Coin Theory (Gravity Falls), Sea Grunkles, Sibling Incest, Stan O' War II, Stan is Bill, Suicidal Thoughts, The Mindscape, Trauma Induced Amnesia, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts, mindscape sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 127,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMJagonshi/pseuds/RavenMJagonshi
Summary: By the time they set sail, Stan remembers who he is and who he was. And that's the problem. Stanremembers.He remembers being Bill Cipher. Remembers living in the NIghtmare Realm. Remembers Stanford. A LOT of Stanford. So how does he manage now that his past life is not so distant?Courtesy of that fucking frilled lizard; this is not what I had in mind, thank you very much!He was kinda fucked. The blue flames were also kind of a downer.





	1. Impulsive Thoughts are a Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing is based on the premise that Stan and Bill are the same person; that when Bill begged to be saved, he was reborn as Stan Pines. I realize that this is different from the traditional Same Coin Theory people are used to, but it kinda got away from me. Updates will be random and not on any schedule.
> 
> Any comments are welcome.

It took him several weeks to put all the jumbled thoughts together. Figments and fractals of memories long past; memories from a lifetime ago faint and muted in the light of the dawn. Stan’s hands gripped the railing of the Stan O’War II as his gaze traveled along the line of the horizon.

He knew who he was. It had taken so long to realize it. More time than he had any desire to admit. He remembered…everything. Everything he had ever done, everything he had ever said, thought, or even thought about thinking. And that is what scared him. He _remembered **everything**_.

At the end of the summer, he remembered being Stanley Pines, 58 year old twin brother to Stanford Filbrick Pines and Great Uncle to ~~Maso~~ Dipper and Mabel Pines, the previous Mr. Mystery and lifelong con man.  

But over the long weeks at sea with said brother, he started to remember who he was before he was Stanley Pines.

And it terrified him.

At first, he had thought it was just remnants or nightmares brought on by PTSD. Fleeting thoughts due to a fractured and shattered mind hastily put back together.

Then he had feared it was cohesive thought, conscious thought from something he dared not give name to. How cohesive was it? Was it enough to gain strength? Enough to take him over? Was Ford safe with him? He didn’t know. And he dared not tell Ford; everything he had ever wanted in life was his now, and he was so scared to lose it. So scared that he tried to ignore something so potentially dangerous as the return of….

But it wasn’t.

It was so much worse.

Because Bill Cipher hadn’t returned.

No.

He had never left.

Stan knew that now. Had realized it as the thoughts and memories became clearer and clearer.

These memories, they were from his perspective. These feelings were emotions he had remembered feeling once so, so long ago. Everything he had _ever_ done, everything he had _ever_ said, thought and so on. Everything _ever_. And that itself was insane because trying to cram a million and sixty years’ worth of memories into his now (well he supposed _had been_ really but he just couldn’t remember) human mind was nothing short of improbable if not impossible.

No Bill Cipher was not gone.

Stanley Pines _was_ Bill Cipher. Had been since the moment he had been born as a surprise twin to Gina Pines all those years ago. _Courtesy of that fucking frilled lizard; this is not what I had in mind, thank you very much!_

He just couldn’t remember until now. Truth be told, Bill Cipher wasn’t even his real name either; he’d gone by it due to the fragility of the minds of humans. But he liked it; it was his moniker. Besides, he’s not sure if he could even remember his real name now anyway. He’s not sure if he would remember _everything_ as time went on and less important memories faded away. Things like what he ate for breakfast before school when he was twelve (probably pancakes), who his third girlfriend had been (he thinks it was a very fine upper class circle, but the name escapes him), which one of them chose to go see Star Wars that weekend (it really didn’t matter as both he and Stanford had been enamored with the film, for different reasons), and how many he had killed when he set his first dimension aflame (everyone had perished in the end, but how many he had personally killed evaded his thoughts).

But for now, he could just revel…, no that was the wrong word. He wasn’t happy with this new revelation. He was horrified, terrified, livid, and mortified all at the same time. Was there a word for that? Probably, but likely not in any human language, and certainly not in English or Spanish. But for now, all he could do was stew in this new revelation. The revelation that he was Bill Cipher and that everything he had done under that name he regretted as the ~~being~~ **man** he was now.

He regretted it. All of it. He had regretted much of it back then too, but he could look back on it all now with the wisdom of age. HA! As if a human lifetime had enough years in it to reach any semblance of wisdom compared to a millennia. Ha ha…ha. Oh Man, this was trippy. And that was even with Weirdmageddon.

God, he wanted coffee. Just off the Icelandic coast in November was too damn cold.

Stan (because he _was now, damnit_ , no matter who he had been in the past) turned from the railing and lumbered to the door of the cabin. He passed by the wheel mounted to the right of the main cabin, patting one of the rungs affectionately.

The top cabin housed all of Ford’s computers, tech and navigational equipment. A table sat to the near right wall littered with maps, a compass, notes, and Ford’s new journal to document all of the anomalies they encountered. The stairs led down to their tiny living space; booth like seats and table on the right wall, combined pooper and shower in the near left corner and their tiny excuse for a galley that took up the left wall. The bedroom took up the bow, closet on either side and beds that met at the head (really foot, but Ford had placed both pillows at the join and he hadn’t argued). Storage underneath and in some places in the engine room, but they didn’t have all that much. Anything they didn’t have room for was shrunken down and put in a chest in Ford’s closet anyway. That flashlight was a handy little tool.

He walked the few feet to the counter and jabbed at the buttons on the coffee pot to get the thing started, grounds already present from the night before. Both Stan and Ford had learned that night prep made mornings much more bearable. He sighed. Coffee was nice. It was normal and after practically living off it for thirty years it was integral to his routine. His eyes drifted around their galley; knowing the familiar surroundings but taking them in and considering everything. The cupboards covered with Mabel’s drawings and pictures of the kids and people from Gravity Falls. The opposite wall obscured with a word map with pegs and notes of where they wanted to visit.

A picture of the kids, Waddles, and what appeared to be Ford’s left hand in the corner, caught his eye. He couldn’t help but feel a gentle smile creep onto his face. He loved them. So much it hurt sometimes. Memories of the past summer drifted in and out as he considered his grand ~~ki~~ niece and nephew. He should really stop correcting himself. What did it matter if he considered them his grandkids in his head? Or that Soos was a better son than he deserved? He missed them. It had only been a few months, and hell, he had only spent a few months with them to begin with, but he still missed them something terrible. Even if he couldn’t always relate to them (well, he could _now_ , but…well), he still wanted to spend time with them. Dipper and all his nerdy obsessions and Mabel….Mabel…

God.

He had almost killed her.

He had wanted to kill her. He had wanted to kill them both. They were a nuisance that shouldn’t have been so difficult to deal with. They had been in the _way!_ They were keeping him from taking over. They kept him from F…

A cough and the creaking of a bed stilled his thoughts and returned the roiling fury back to ripples. 

No. He wasn’t that person. Not anymore.

He was different now. He had experienced a different life. A life with people who loved him. His parents, Wendy, Soos, the Kids…Ford.

How was he going to break this whole thing to Ford? Was he going to? Would Ford even believe him? Would he think that Bill was back? Had taken over or merged with Stan’s psyche? Well, that wasn’t exactly wrong, though perhaps misinformed.

The worst part of all this, was how was he going to deal with his feelings towards Stanford. _All_ of his feelings, both from his time as Bill and as Stan.

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Ford was _his!_ Bill had claimed him. Ford was his toy, his pet. He had an inexorable obsession with Ford. His Sixer. _HIS!_

The door to the bedroom opened and Stanford himself padded out in a sweater and fleece jacket with dark colored pants and Stan’s new pair of pink bunny slippers. He’d picked them up in a store in Rhode Island to replace the ones that had been left behind in the Mystery Shack. He wasn’t sure if they had simply gone missing, a new chew toy for Gompers, or if Abuelita had stolen them. He thought he caught a distinctly familiar flash of pink under the hem of her robe one morning before they left, but, eh, whatever. Why Ford had openly stolen his new pair was another question he didn’t have the energy to follow through with.

Ford hummed a greeting and patted him on the shoulder as he walked by towards the head. Stan hummed back; conversation between them varied from long, drawn out explanations to pointed looks and the occasional grunt.

It was strange to fall back into it so easily. As if they had never spent any time apart. You would think after nearly forty years apart, growing into their own, that habits would have changed. They had, actually; the weird part was how easy they both adjusted to those changes in habits for one another.

The coffee pot binged, and Stan pulled out two cups from the photograph covered cupboard. Ford preferred his with a splash of milk and three sugars, but on the water, milk was a luxury, so Stan added powdered creamer instead. Less chance of the dried stuff from going bad. He took his plain. Personally, he had gotten used to room temperature coffee, but he’d drink whatever. Taking it black just meant more sugar for Ford.

He had always thought of his brother as his. Hard to explain to someone when they’ve never experienced it themselves, but when you are learning what the world is and developing thought patterns with someone who is always there, you stop thinking of yourselves as different people. But it wasn’t just that. Stanford was his twin, his best friend, but Stan had always felt like Ford was his responsibility. He wanted to protect him (he had on many occasion), he felt pride when Ford did something amazing (even if it was just saving a bug that Stan had felt so bad for almost stepping on), he was happy when Ford was happy and upset when he wasn’t. But it was always kinda weird. His clinginess to Ford had not gone unnoticed by their parents either. It’s part of the reason Pops had started boxing lessons; try and split them up some.

He himself was kinda weirded out by his feelings too. As he got older, he had feared he had developed a crush. Even now, the guilt twisted in his stomach. He didn’t know what was worse, feeling regret over thinking the things he did, or eventually the regret from _not_ regretting it. At least he knew where that shit had come from. Not that it really helped him any; Ford had fallen pretty hard for him, er Bill, at one time. It was nice to remember feeling so loved. He had really wanted to keep Ford after the portal had been built.  

He set Ford’s cup on the counter near the door to the head and sat at the table with his own. He took a sip and inhaled the steam, letting it loosen the muscles around his face and enlarge his nasal passages. He never gave much stock into aroma therapy, but he did know that certain humidity levels and molecules on the nasal receptors could trigger the release of dopamine. Hence good feelings from a steaming cup of coffee.

That was another thing he was struggling with. Increased knowledge.

Stan was not an idiot by any means; yeah, he was a fucking candle next to Ford’s bonfire, but he wasn’t as stupid as many would like to believe. He had taught himself quantum physics and multidimensional paradigm theory for fucks sake, and built and programed a biomolecular scanner that was keyed into Ford’s specific dimensional genetic code. Not to mention he re-worked the entire portal to connect to other dimensions, not just the in-between space he’d been stuck in for Axolotl knows how long.

It wasn’t his fault Ford had returned to the Nightmare Realm and was hell bent on killing…him. Damn.

Point being, Stan wasn’t stupid, he was just lacking in a significant amount of knowledge on a variety of topics. Or he was not too long ago. The influx of new (or rather, old) knowledge was a bit disorienting. Answers to questions he had never thought to ask, complex calculations in a form of math that had yet to be understood by humans yet, colorful insults in several different languages (many that required multiple tongues to fully enunciate) and the exact time of Ford’s death (though that last one may have changed with recent events, but was a long ways off in either case).

The influx of information was starting to make his brain hurt.

He took another sip of coffee.     

He heard the pump start and a spray of water from the sink before Ford stepped out of the head and snagged the waiting cup before coming over to sit across from him.

“You’re up early.” Ford said, taking a sip from his cup, humming faintly at the taste.

Stan shrugged, trying not to be obvious about avoiding eye contact. “Trippy dreams. Knew I shouldn’t’ave eaten that can ‘a brown meat. We’ll need to make port soon, unless you wanna eat fish.”

Ford chuckled, “I offered you half of my tofu. You said no, rather adamantly I might add.” He took another sip from his cup, “And only if I get to cook it. The kids told me about ‘Stan-cakes’.”

Stan snorted. Of course, they had mentioned that. Unfortunately for him, most things he comes into contact with became covered in hair. That was just a product of being a Pines. Or so he thought. Ford, on the other hand, had gotten away near scot free in that aspect. He’d caught glimpses in the mornings of Ford’s body; hair on his arms and legs, scant tuft on his chest that trailed down to his crotch. What had Mabel and her girlfriends called it? A Treasure Trail? Stan had always just referred to it as a tongue line. He had become real intimate with things like that back when he was sucking cock for a meal. Best not to let Ford in on that aspect of his life, lest he trigger any PTSD guilt attacks.

“A little hair ain’t gonna kill ya. Besides, I’m still a better cook than you. Remember Ma’s birthday? You damn near burnt the kitchen down.”

“Stan, we were eight! And it would have been fine if _you_ hadn’t distracted me! As it was, it was only marginally chard.”

“It was a frickin’ charcoal slab, Ford. And you know it.” Stan jabbed a finger at Ford to emphasize his point. Ford smacked the finger away. “Don’t point at me!”

They tried not to fight. They really did, but brothers were brothers and egos were often far too fragile to handle criticism. Stan really didn’t want to fight. Not now. Not when his mind had expanded way past the limits and his emotions barely leashed.

He held up his palm in a show of peace, “Point being, we’re running outta supplies. And it wouldn’t hurt to see if we could find something for the kids for Christmas. Don’t suppose we’ll make it to Piedmont in time?”

The fight dropped from Ford’s eyes, lips curving in a sad smile. “Ahh, not this time. That old RV of yours is going to take longer than a week to get from Rhode Island to California. As it is, it would take nearly a month to get back to port anyway. We could shave about 10 days off our travel time if we could have made port in Maine…but…”

Stan groaned. “Yeah, yeah. I got banned from a lotta places. Oh, if we ever find ourselves near South America, stay the hell away from Columbia! Rico may be takin’ a dirt nap, but his goons are still not too fond of me.” He really didn’t want to get Ford wrapped up in any of that mess. It probably wasn’t a problem anymore, but ‘Andrew “8-ball” Alcatraz’ was a story he’d rather leave buried where it was.

Ford’s expression turned to melancholy; the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck rose in irritation. He didn’t need Ford’s pity. He had gotten himself out of there. Ford’s concern was nice sure, but the fact that it came now, only after it didn’t matter, made Stan’s gums itch.

Surprisingly, Ford decided to keep the tone of their conversation light. “The things you get up to. Remind me to ask you about chewing your way out of a trunk. That always got me thinking while I was traveling.” He lifted his cup to hide his face before continuing. “You didn’t look too bad with the mullet. You should grow it out.”

Stan sniggered. “Yeah, I always was the better lookin’ twin.” He paused a beat. “But you are rockin’ the grey hair.”

“Says the man whose wardrobe consists of a borrowed suit, and an endless rainbow of Hawaiian shirts.”

They both laughed as they finished their coffee. It was a good morning.

*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They had decided, with much prompting from Stan, to make the trip to Reykjavik. There were a number of small fishing villages along the coast, but if they wanted to mail anything or get any equipment repaired (or buy anything but fish), then Reykjavik was it. They pulled into the harbor and were directed over to the smaller end of the dock meant for local fishing trawlers. The harbor man frowned at their documentation; clearly confused as to how their tiny cruiser had made it all the way from America without a sail.

That was Ford’s most ingenious alteration to the Stan O’War II. A tiny nuclear reactor twice the size of an easy chair powered their main engines. He had worked on the plans with McGucket for a few weeks before they left Gravity Falls, leaving Stan with most of the packing and cleaning. Not having a sail meant less concern over interference with the antenna anyway. Stan wasn’t gonna lie, having internet and being able to skype with the kids was well worth the extra effort stabilizing the damn thing in a storm.

Their passports were stamped, granting them a week visa. They’d agreed to split the list, Stan would get supplies and Ford would acquire the necessary parts to maintain the ship and Stan’s beat-up RV. They had the RV with them, the El Diablo too. Stan kept them mounted in a plexiglass case on the bedside table. They had tinkered with the RV’s engine with a set of tweezers, but the head gasket was shot. The damn thing had overheated on the way to Rhode Island and they had to make the last leg of the trip in the El Diablo.

Ford was a wiz with engines, so why not let him be the one to maintain everything?

Stan headed towards downtown and the market. He spoke maybe two words in Gaelic, but he could point and mime numbers as well as any chimp. Actually, he could speak Gaelic now, but that was a fact he was trying to forget. It was surprisingly easy to let the chatter of the market goers roll into a nonsensical dull roar. It was comforting, reminding him of the ever-present hum in the ‘Nightmare Dimension’. That wasn’t really what it was called, but it suited just as well as any name. He hated that place, but it had been home for so long he had gotten used to it. Familiarity breeds…well, contempt, but still, it was familiar anyway. As he paid for a pallet of canned goods he gave the stall owner the name of their ship and where it was docked with a few extra bills to cover any delivery fee. It helped that Ford had submitted his own patents and had netted a tidy sum to keep them going a while.

Stan wandered between the stalls; spices, shit tons of fish and shellfish (maybe crab would be good tonight?), barrels and more barrels of produce and wine (the people of Iceland liked their apples). He bought an overflow barrel of mixed vegetables that a local farmer hadn’t been able to sell to any of the other ships and gave him directions to the Stan O’War. He kept it going, buying things here and there, keeping in mind Ford’s likes and dislikes, and having it all taken to the dock. Blessed coffee, tea, salt, sugar, yeast and flour, a dozen cans of evaporated milk, some more bleach and a new scrapper (those barnacles were a bitch).

 _Maybe I should get some steaks instead, we won’t be able to get real meat for a while, so why not enjoy it_. He had just accepted the wrapped steaks when some other shopper pushed his way into Stan’s space to yell at the stall owner. Stan stepped back and glared. The guy had bulging eyes and tiny ears. _Think he’d look better with those switched._ He grinned with childlike glee. _His arms coming out the sides of his neck, and hands from his lip like a freakish mustache._ Stan could feel a slight crackle along his skin, as if he had built up static. But he was disassociated from feeling, his mind intent on deciding if he wanted a new toy. _I could pull out his intestines and play jump rope or tie a pretty little ~~noo~~_ …

Stan had taken a step forwards, hand raised and fingers ready to snap to rend the man’s skin apart.

He…what the hell!? He wasn’t like that! NO!  

Stan felt faint. He clutched the bag of goods and bolted into the masses of the market.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gone through and corrected some really bad typos and spelling mistakes.


	2. Icelandic Pastries and Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan thinks about his life, defends Ford's honor and eats Toffie Peanuts.

Time was a blur. His legs ached by the time he thought to stop. He was still on the coast, still in town. He couldn’t have been running more than forty minutes. An hour at most. He was old. Even at a slow speed, running longer than it took to get from a hit to his car was tiring. And he was. His body felt loose and disjointed. His sides throbbed punctuated with the occasional sharp pinch. His toes were numb, result of piss poor circulation. His head pulsed in time with his too rapid heartbeat. He felt dry. Dry and heated to the point of cracking. His mouth thought he had woken up from one hell of a bender.

 _What the HELL!? What the fuck is wrong with me!?_ Stan panted, hunching over to regain his balance. _God damn. What was that?_ Stan’s mind reeled. Where had it come from? This sudden urge to maim and torture and _fucking play_ with someone just to see what would happen was not an urge he was used to having anymore. Besides, he _knew_ what would happen. He knew what the screams would sound like, how the organs would feel and how warm the blood would be. He _knew,_ damn it! He didn’t need to do it. He didn’t _want_ to. _Fuck!_

Had he always been like that? Had he been that violent as Stan? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear that answer.

He ran his free hand over his face, shoulders slumped and feet unsteady. His other hand loose and hanging onto the bag of steaks as an afterthought. It was too easy to slip into agenizing, hopeless despair. He had spent decades lost in that void, both figuratively and literally. Years lost on the road or stumbling through the forest looking for those damn journals. Centuries lost in a slowly collapsing dimension, wavering in and out or delight and regret at having killed his entire family and everyone he loved.  

His body went ridged, muscles wound tight with agitation. No. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to let this affect him. It was just an impulse. He had those, everyone did. The only difference now was he had different impulses. _More violent ones_. He shuddered and gritted his teeth, dentures pinching at his gums.

He should head back. He needed to pack up all the stuff he had delivered to the ship. He needed to make sure no one passed by and lifted anything.  Where was he? He had gone in a straight line, right? He didn’t remember making any turns.

He was in some residential area near the coast. The road had pulled away from the water’s edge and he could just faintly hear the splashing of the waves. He was on a bridge (a low one, barely ten feet) going over a gully leading down to the beach. The cement guard posts, made for stopping cars more than pedestrians, provided some semblance of reprieve. Everything hurt. He just needed a few minutes. He took off his red beanie and stuffed it in the pocket of his trench coat, running a hand through his hair. His hands felt tight, like the skin was too small. That’s when he realized he wasn’t sweating.

He needed to find some water.

Stan squinted at the buildings up the road from where he came, wishing not for the first time that he had been brave enough to get that cataract surgery. Anything not within two feet of his face was blurry and anything in the distance was just color. His glasses helped, but not much.

_There is a bakery, 400 yards down the road, left side._

What? _O Pan e Manteiga. Simple. Run by a Guy named Viktor. Makes great pita bread, oddly._

How did he know that? _How_ **do** _I know that?_

He squeezed his eyes closed and started the slow trek to the storefront. He passed by a clothing store and a pawn shop on the way, a twang of nostalgia passing through his core.

It was there. O Pan e Manteiga. The Bread and Butter. Maybe he’d seen it and his subconscious took notice of it. _I know lots of things!_ He shuddered. He wasn’t omnipotent. Not anymore. And not knowing everything kept things interesting.

Stan pushed the door open and winced at the tinging of the bell. A slender man about forty years old with salt and pepper hair greeted him in Gaelic. Stan didn’t respond, instead shuffling over to the counter clutching at his side that had started hurting again.  

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped and tried again.

“Auga?” He asked tentatively. Stan’s voice was weak and he realized how out of breath he was.

Viktor smiled faintly and pulled a bottle of water from a sliding door cooler behind the counter.

“Douscentos trinta e cinco” Viktor spoke slowly, realizing that Stan was a foreigner.

Stan squinted and shook his head in confusion. He understood, kind of, but his mind was foggy. “What?” Viktor sighed and mimed the numbers 235. Stan pulled out the envelope of bills Ford had handed him after leaving the bank earlier. He flipped through the bills numbly and handed over far too much than Viktor had asked for but he didn’t care. The guy needed it if his daughter wanted that yearbook. _Damnit! Stop that!_

He gulped down the water, draining the bottle in a few short seconds. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and nose as his body adjusted to having necessary moisture. Bodily necessities sucked. Sweating was weird, even if he had done it for sixty years, it was still weird. All that water just in his body and eking out through tiny holes in his skin. Skin itself was kinda weird too. It was mushy and soft and was fun to poke at, especially Ford. Ford had always seemed bemused whenever ~~Stan~~ Bill took over his body and sat poking and prodding at his various appendages.

He finished the bottle with a final gulp. Panting, he turned his gaze back to Viktor who was holding out a plastic bag with another bottle of water and some sort of wrapped pastry.

“I don’t…what?” God his voice was rough. He must have really needed that water.

Viktor sighed again, shaking the bag slightly at Stan. “Kleina. You like.”

Stan took the bag slowly, dropping the empty bottle in the bag too. The Kleina was warm and appeared to be diamond shaped donut with a hole in the middle.

“Thank you” Stan was still a little breathless and his words came out as a harsh gasp. He felt his cheeks coloring. He reached for the envelope again, but Viktor waved him off as he turned to help another customer that had walked in behind Stan. Stan pulled the second bottle out and began drinking it much less desperately and left an extra bill on the counter on his way out. _That should cover part of the yearbook cost at least….aw, fuck it!_

 _Storefront would look better yellow. Or pink. Guy’d look better with pink hair too._ Stan’s fingers itched to snap, but he resisted. _This is stupid! I’m human now! Been human for damn near sixty years. No more powers. Think I’d be used to it by now._ He’d never wanted them before, so why now?  He was just feeling nostalgic, that was all. Being on the ocean with Ford had brought up a shit ton of nostalgia and it brought this too. That’s all it was. He sipped his water and made his way back to the docks.

*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His back ached by the time he had gotten the supplies loaded. Thankfully nothing had gone missing. He suspected the Harbor Master had been keeping an eye on things; the man had been walking back and forth in front of the Stan O’War often enough to catch Stan’s attention. Nice as it was it was still annoying because it meant he had to carry everything by hand rather than shrinking everything down and making one trip that didn’t throw his back out.

He was lounging on the galley booth nursing a Pitt Cola when he heard voices out front. Ford and some other male, both speaking Gaelic. He wanted to play dumb and pretend he didn’t understand. Let the syllables roll over him without their meaning sticking. But curiosity and the cat and all that. Actually, curiosity didn’t kill the cat, curiosity brought the cat people of Dimension Al/26 to his realm and he killed them. After he dressed them up in adorable little outfits and made them dance. Captain Puratrick the Fourth had cursed him with his last breath. Maybe that was why Lazy Susan’s cats hated him. He was cursed. Worked for him. Her voice reminded him of his aunt anyway. Creepy old trapezoid that she was.

Stan lifted himself off the seat of the booth and grumbled about being old. He let his mind shift and began listening to the conversation above.

“I’m still sure I can get a better range if I modify the receivers with reflective sheeting to concentrate the signal, but I need to know if you can supply the metal.” That would be Ford. Tongue flapping and voice rapid fire as his prattled on about improving their antenna. Stan knew it wouldn’t work. All it would do is scatter the signal even more with several receivers on their current antenna. Be better if he just ripped the whole thing out and put in a proper dish, but that would take weeks and more money than they both were comfortable spending.

Stan heard a low whistle and a regional exclamation of awe he didn’t quite understand. The hell did ‘codding’ mean?

“Jesus, an’ you came from America? You really are slaggin’ me. That’s ships pretty small ain’t it? Not even a sail. You got anyone else to keep you company?” Guy sounded more Irish than anything. Ford didn’t seem to take note of the flirtatious tone.  

“Just my twin Stanley.”

“OH, Twins, eh? Is ‘e as clean on as you are?” Nope, this was not happening.

“Umm……I don’t, I mean…the, um, the mainframe is in the top cabin if you wanted to take a look.” Great, Ford had finally caught on to this guy’s intent.    

Stan had been on his way up at the mystery man’s first comment. He exited the main cabin’s door in time to catch Ford blushing bright magenta holding his hands in front of him in defense.

“Ah, sorry, had you pegged for queer. Too bad, you’re just my type.” The Icelandic man (Irish, Stan was sure now) seemed to back down when he saw Stan hovering behind Ford. Stan put on a neutral to slightly annoyed expression and addressed Ford in English.

“Hey, back so soon? You missed putting supplies away. Who’s this clown?” He gestured to the new guy with an uptick of his chin.

Because the man really was dressed rather absurdly. Low cut white v-neck showing off his chest hair, cardigan thrown over his shoulders (he wasn’t even wearing it properly), chunky gold chain, green paperboy cap balanced on his head, 70’s porn ‘stache and…did this guy really have a fucking gold tooth?

His appearance ran like pins down Stan’s back; he instantly disliked the man, even without the knowledge that he was putting moves on Ford.  

Damn kid was stealing his look! And flirting with his brother! AND getting a reaction. Time to nip this one in the bud.

“By the by, I picked up a package ‘o yer nappies. Expensive as hell out here, but if it’ll keep the mattresses clean.”

Ford’s face seemed to get even redder, deepening into near purple with humiliation. His eyes narrowed and he turned a scowl towards Stan that would have withered him some years ago.

“STANLEY!” Oh, he was pissed. “What are you on about now, you knucklehead?” Stan shifted his attention back and forth between Ford and porno guy, internally cheering when he saw a look of surprised disgust curl up and find a home under that poor excuse for a mustache. While an unfortunate fact of life, he figured incontinence was a major turn off if this guy was lookin’ to ride a silver fox.

The guy switched to English and Stan felt damn proud of himself pegging the Irish heritage when a thick accent came out. “Oy, sorry mate. Takin’ a look at yer set up, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. ‘Less you wanna get yerself a whole new rig. Ye’ best jus’ stick with what ya got. Sorry, other places ta be. Good luck, ya?” And with that, Irish prono ‘stache was hopping off the deck and hightailing it to the main dock.

Stan couldn’t help but grin; cat and proverbial canary and such, but the guy practically left trail of fire with how fast he ran. HA! He braved a glance back at Ford, who had been lackadaisically trying to call out to the guy, hand outstretched to stop him. He turned to Stan, lips pursed. 

“Damnit, Stanley, what the hell was that for?” Ford’s hands gesturing between them.

Stan frowned. Ford was naive when it came to social interactions, but he wasn’t that dense.

“Saving you from having to fend off potentially wandering hands later.” He’d thought it had been obvious. Ford apparently hadn’t gotten that.

“By implying that I’m incontinent? If anyone needs extra absorbency it’s you. And he was going to help me modify the antenna. Now where am I going to get highly polished sheet metal?” Stan decided to ignore Ford’s comment and simply address the main issue, which was that this guy was moving in on his ~~terr~~ , NO! Not going there. He was just looking out for Ford.

“Polishin’ sheet metal wasn’t what he was lookin’ to do.” And he _did_ know. The guy wanted to do a heck of a lot more than just work on their antenna. He could see the guy’s fantasies of being dominated by Ford as clear as if he’d been watching a film. He would have been disappointed.  

“I could have handled it.” Sheepish and mild annoyance made Ford adorable. _I need a lamb costume. Wonder if he would do the ‘Lambie, Lambie dance’ for me._  

“Yeah, like you weren’t trippin’ over yer words and backin’ down like you were avoidin’ a fight.” Even in high school Ford had been all hands and confused tongue when talking to people he liked. Cathy Crenshaw being a prime example.  

“Stanley, I’ve been traveling the multiverse for thirty years, I can handle one guy. And who’s to say I wasn’t interested. You don’t know what I’m into?” Stan snorted. Yeah, he would have never expected Ford to be attracted to a yellow triangle, but there you go. Come to think of it, Ford had stammered and flushed when _he_ had flirted with him, too. Not that he had intended to, he was just praising Ford on his calculations. _And maybe implying that big brains were evidence of other big things._ At the time, he had meant big heads, but Ford’s wide-eyed expression was funny, so he had let Ford think otherwise.

“No, I don’t know, but I could see you were lookin’ fer a way out. I gave you one. ‘Sides, the guy was right. It’d only scatter the signal more." Stan was done with this conversation, and he could tell Ford was on the last bit of his patience too. Ford arched an eyebrow incredulously, nose wrinkling in disbelief.   

“How would you know? I don’t remember you knowing anything about radio signals.”

Stan baulked. Shit…Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“I don’t tell you everything, Poindexter. ‘Sides, I had ta learn a lil’ somin somin ‘bout it. In the middle ‘o winter, havin’ a radio to let people know what’s up was damn useful. I’m gonna head down and start moving things. Got some steaks for dinner tonight. Picked up a donut at a shop down the way. Left it for you. Not sweet enough for me.” Stan waved a hand dismissively and started back down to the galley. He fully intended to spend the rest of the night avoiding any continuation of this conversation if he could help it. If that meant re-arranging stock, cooking dinner, and washing dishes, then he was glad to do it.   

He grumbled obscenities about where Irish Porn Star could shove it and about brothers who were too smart for their own good as he stomped down to the galley, back pain be damned. He snagged the bag of toffee peanuts from the table, tearing into the bag without thinking.   

“I thought they stopped making those God-awful things?” Ford had obviously followed him down and was emptying his pockets into a drawer by the stairwell. Stan glanced down at the bag in his hands, mouth open in mid-bite. Ummmm.  

“Oh, uh, found a store in town that sold them. Guy wouldn’t let me buy their whole stock. Same place I got you that donut.” He pushed the bag with the Kleina towards the other side of the table where Ford would undoubtedly sit.    

They had been in the bag that Viktor gave him,…right? Yeah, he’d asked for them. There had been a whole display. And if a bag of jellybeans appeared in the cupboard the next morning for Ford to find, well, those had been in the bag too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The steaks had been exceptional (though he was sure they had been mutton rather than beef, but hey, good either way) and he and Ford had set up on the deck with folding chairs and a pack of beer between them. It was some domestic (Icelandic) beer that sat meaty and heavy in his mouth. But it had been cheap and tasted okay cold. Ford didn’t seem to mind it either, and he had never been much of a drinker.

“There are positives and negatives to being near civilization.” Ford’s voice was light and Stan hummed in curiosity. “This is the first night that we haven’t been able to see the stars clearly.” Ford took a sip from his bottle and leaned further back in his chair. Ford had always liked looking at the stars. Constellations and planets and the occasional light distortion of a distant galaxy. The telescope mounted on the roof of the cabin was proof enough, although that was mainly used for navigation.  

Stan grinned, “You want stars Poindexter, all you gotta do is look out on the water.” It was true. The various lights from the ships coming in and out of port twinkled and danced as their light reflected and refracted off the moisture in the air and the water’s surface. It reminded him of the clouds of fireflies that would creep out of the forest at night back in Gravity Falls.

Ford let out a soft chuckle and drained his beer before snagging another. They sat in silence and just took in the world around them. Quiet slaps of the water against the hull of the boat, gentle breath of the wind bringing in the smells of the ocean. He could almost feel the sand between his toes and the press of a wooden seat of a swing set. They used to do this, sit for hours, and not talk, watching the swirls of the mindscape float by, carrying pages of information and memories with them. Comfortable. Stan had _always_ taken comfort in Ford’s presence. Even when he had annoyed the heck out of him and Ford was purposefully ignoring him, he still liked being near Ford. Making a point to sit next to him or float just beyond his peripheries.

At first it had just been a way to use Stanford. Get close and chummy to gain his trust and have the portal built. It was kind of pathetic how quickly he grew to enjoy Ford’s company. He used to find really stupid excuses to possess Ford’s body; he need to write something down, he missed a button, he was gonna slip in the shower, he hadn’t eaten that day, he’d been trying to…stay awake.

Stan hated himself. _All_ of himself. He had driven Ford to the brink of insanity, tormenting and teasing. Messing with his mind and memories in an effort to goad him into pleading, begging him to stop. It pleased him when Ford begged. He had wanted to pull Ford taut, pull him apart before giving him what he wanted. Eventually, Ford had stopped eating, stopped sleeping and he was losing control of his body. Stan remembered forcefully taking over just to get Ford to bathe and shove a sandwich down his throat before downing some sleeping pills. Yeah, Ford was a puppet. But he was Stan’s favorite puppet.

He sighed. That was a long, long time ago. As much as he lamented it now, he couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed it at the time. Things were different now. He was a new man, a different man and as much as memories from back then nagged at his mind, this was what he wanted. This, right here. On a boat with his brother, looking for scientific and magical anomalies and finding treasure. _And babes!_ Speaking of, Stanford had been turning something over in his mind. Stan wished he’d just spit it out already, he was ready for some action. He pointedly ignored that he knew what Ford was going to ask.         

Ford cleared his throat. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the scanner. I think there might be another anomaly up the coast a ways.” Stan harrumphed and chugged the last of his beer. “I heard today that Lokinhamradalur Valley up in the western fjords has had some issues with ghosts for several hundred years. The farmers up there have been complaining about spooked livestock, wilting crops and sand in the water pumps.” Ford scratched at his side of his face, glancing at Stan from the corner of his eye, desperately trying not so sound like Dipper discovering something new. Stan could feel his eyes rolling before he even thought to do so, and shook his head. What kind of brother would he be to deny Ford who seemed all but vibrating out of his seat with excitement.

“Alright, Nerd. We can go lookin’ for your spookums and ghosts and shit. But you’re cookin’ dinner tomarra’ and I get to decide what treasure we keep.” There really wasn’t any malice behind his words, but one had to keep up appearances.

The grin on Ford’s face could have lit up a room. His eyes practically glittering. What was a little side trip to check out some local folklore?  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shit at proper grammar. If anyone is interested in beta reading this, I'll send you virtual cookies. I'll send you actual cookies if you want to give me an address to send it to.


	3. Columbian Stories and Nordic Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford talk about Columbia and Stan's past before heading to the western fjords to find Nordic ruins.

Apparently, the “little side trip” had turned into an epic fiasco that resulted in Ford and Stan absconding with a chest of gold and jewelry from a Viking crypt with a draugr bearing down on them and trapping its soul in Stan’s brass-knuckles.  

Why was nothing ever simple when it came to Ford and his mystery weirdness?

They had woken up stupid early and skipped breakfast to find a local car rental place. Which was fair enough as neither one of them trusted the STNLYMBL on rocky terrane. The old gal was a highway cruiser and her shoes were made for strutting on the paved streets of Hollywood. Stan had grumbled the whole way until Ford had tossed him a glazed donut from one of his many pockets. Upon procuring a means of transportation, they returned to the docks and packed supplies enough for two days, as Ford put it, “In case things get hairy.”

They had been quarreling about how much food they were bringing versus how many reference books Ford was allowed to have with him. “Why do you need an Icelandic Wildlife Spotter’s Field Guide? I thought we were looking for ghosts?” Stan arched an eyebrow skeptically at Ford, who was busy sorting through cans of vegetables and brown meat. “How can you eat this stuff, it smells revolting? And this is an exploratory expedition. We don’t know what we’ll find out there. It’s good to have reference materials handy to accurately identify both natural flora and fauna as well as anything supernatural.” Then under his breath, “No wonder you haven’t kept in shape, God Stanley.”

Stan scowled. “Hey, round _is_ a shape. And I’m sixty, cut me some slack. Besides, why can’t you just digitize all these books? I know Mabel showed you how to use the book function on that tablet.”

“There is evidence to suggest that digital media triggers distinct parts of the brain similar to watching television. While out in the field, I need to be at the top of my intellectual game and there is a certain level of sophistication to using paper…”

“Meaning you forgot how and won’t admit it.” Stan frowned at Ford’s overly long explanation. Ford himself failed miserably at hiding a pout. “I did nothing of the sort. I simply thought…” “You did to. Look it’s not that hard. I had trouble with it at first too.” “I did not, Stanley, I spent years utilizing technology and digital databases far beyond the understanding of our current level of technology. I think I can handle a simple ‘application’.” The quotation marks in Ford’s voice were practically visible.    

“Argh! Forget it, just give me a second.”    

Stan pulled out the shrinking flashlight from his day pack, twirling it in his hand like a cheerleader's baton. He pointed it at the stack of books in the trunk and shrank them down to the size of a pink eraser.

“There, problem solved. Now we have room for your silly nerd books and the food.” He shouldn’t feel so smug, but he couldn’t help himself. It brought him endless pleasure to show up his brother, especially when it came to something Ford should have been able to figure out himself.   

Ford simply raised an eyebrow at Stan’s choice of gear. “What else have you got in there that I should know about?”

The grin that appeared on Stan’s face was the same one that had charmed a countless number of ladies (and men) and swindled many others. He kept his voice nonchalant. “Oh, just my safe cracking kit, crowbar, couple'a sticks of dynamite, smoke bombs, a spare notebook and some pens, box'a matches, and a grappling hook.” He turned to Ford with the aforementioned gunpowder loaded claw hook and struck a pose right out of a spy film. Sexy smirk and all, though the trench coat and red beanie detracted from the suave enigma look.

Ford couldn’t help but chuckle at Stan showing off. “You took that one from Mabel?” He asked, rearranging the supplies in the trunk to pack a couple of extra blankets.

“No, _she_ took it from _me_. Got myself a new one. That thing saved me from a run in with Don Herbrerto’s cronies. They weren’t too keen on me being a favorite” Stan fastened the grappling hook to his belt, frowning at the lack of a side-arm holster. As loathe as he was to admit it, Ford looked damn cool with his pistol strap. He tucked his brass knuckles in the interior pocket of his coat.      

“I thought his name was Rico.” Ford gave Stan a hairy eyeball, disbelief written into the creases of his face.  

Stan let out a short laugh. “Rico _was_ one of his cronies. But he was shaving off some profits and sellin'em on the side and harassin' somma the Don's best customers. Didn’t help that he got himself thrown in the slammer. So they ran him down an' fed 'im some lead. Last I heard he was face down in an alley in New Mexico ‘bout a year after I got to Gravity Falls.”

Ford was dumbfounded. “Dear lord! And you were involved with that?” Did Ford really think he was a murderer? Well, technically he was, but letting Ford in on his complete history was all kinds of bad ideas. And hell, he really hadn’t meant to mention his drug dealings to Ford. He guessed it was better to let loose his past as Stan than it was his past as Bill. Well, cats and proverbial bags. He really needed to learn when to shut up. Silver tongues came with a cost.  

“Naw, I was a messenger boy; took invoices and parcels of documents from place to place. The Don liked my Jersey accent, but I never got any’a the powder runs. I was droppin’ somthin’ off to Rico an’ wasn’t watchin’ fer any tails. The cops busted a transaction between Jorge and Rico and I was in the middle.”

He was warry of looking at Stanford now. Why was this so hard to say? It was in the past. Done with. So why was it so embarrassing to admit to Stanford that he had lived a rough life? Boy howdy, was the aftertaste of shame a familiar one. _Damn._

That wasn’t all. He went out of his way to avoid remembering a lot of shit, but Columbia was by far the worst. He’d lost contact with what he’d assumed was a really good friend. _Hell, a really good lover, too._ He’d taken Sanchez with him for that run. They’d made plans to take the night off and sit by the water with Beth. Just the three of them enjoying the stars and the sand. Rick was supposed to be watching his back, but they’d been separated. Stan had lost sight of Rick when the cops started beating him.

At first, he’d just been glad that Rick was spared a stint in prison as he wasn’t involved with any of the Don’s crew. He was relieved that Rock had enough sense to put Beth first, but Rico and Jorge’s comments had gotten to him, and he had gotten pissed that Rick would just up and abandon him like that. He’d thought that…aw hell. No, a few wild and passionate nights were just sex, and Stan had made believe that they’d been in love in some poor and desperate attempt to feel something. He still missed that old codger, wherever the hell he was. He’d hoped that Rick had made it back to Beth. Sweet little girl. She had liked pressing her fingers to Stan’s nose and making beeping sounds. Two-year-olds were so easily amused.   

“Wait, Sanchez? As in _Rick_ Sanchez!?” Shit, had he been talking out loud again? “Um, yeah. Why? You know ‘im?” Not that he didn’t see the parallels between Rick and Ford, hell, it’s what had attracted Stan in the first place, but for Stanford to actually know his ex,…that was a road he was not prepared to travel. Too bad the bus wouldn’t let him off. 

“ _Know_ him?! Stan, I traveled with him in the multiverse for years! He’s part of the reason I’m a wanted man in two hundred and forty-seven dimensions! And the reason I got stranded in the middle of a desert planet running from a bounty hunter.”

Stan guffawed, shaking his head and trying not to cry. “Yeah, Rick’s kind of an asshat. Figured he’d had more up his sleeve than just scifi techno-what-have-yous. Didn’t know it was delving into the multiverse.” Stan took a moment to catch his breath before he asked the next question. “Do you…do you know what happened to Beth? How she is?” Theoretically, anything and everything had happened to Beth, what with the infinite universes, but he still wanted to know what happened to the Beth from here.

“As far as I know, she married and had two kids. Rick was traveling with his grandson, last I saw him. Figured a fist fight in front of a child would be frowned on.”

Damn that was good news. Real good news. He made it out, Beth too. Ford’s words lifted a weight off Stan’s heart he didn’t know his was holding. As much as he was irritated at Rick for abandoning him in a fucking Columbian prison, rose colored nostalgia of nights in motels curled up with a baby, watching Columbian soap operas, and trading stories about swindling people out of their money made it real hard to be too angry at the man. God, he was still in love, wasn’t he? Damn it. ‘Course he was. He was a hopeless romantic; flowers and music and the whole shebang. Dancing with Rick had been fun. Rick had been fun.

 _Aw, enough_. It was over, wasn’t? Why couldn’t he just move on. He still had lingering feelings for Ford too, but that was where he started beating the bus driver over the head and taking over the wheel. _Nope, not goin’ there._  

“I wish you _had_ punched that sucker. I certainly want to.” He was an old hat at squashing his feelings. Ford didn’t need to know how soft and gooey his heart was right now.

Ford gave him a knowing and watery look. A look that said Ford had caught on to Stan’s feelings and heartbreak over losing Rick. Maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings anymore.

“Anyway, glad things worked out for them. After I served my time I went back to the Don. Figured I could either show up or try’an run an’ risk getting run down. Don branded me, sign that I’d been let go willingly.” He raised his left wrist and showed Ford the tiny joined cross symbol. “Meant I was useless and not worth concerning with. Car got impounded while I was locked up. Had to borrow money from Rico to get it out. Bastard followed me all the way to New Mexico where I got your postcard.”

Stan had started rubbing at the back of his neck during his story, realizing he had done so and bringing it back down in front of him to pick at his coat buttons. “That’s prolly enough storytime for me. Don’t wanna bore you to sleep before we head out on the road.”

Ford’s lips were still turned up with that soft, knowing smile. He reached out and placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder, six fingers delicately kneading into the fabric. Stan scoffed and brushed him off, shoving his bag into the trunk. If Ford let out a bemused snort, well Stan hadn’t heard it.

“Don’t suppose there are any motels out where we’re goin’ is there? We plannin’ on being back here before nightfall?” He’d decided to change the subject nice and quick.

“No. Just farmland and open fields. There is a tourist welcome center in the last village before the valley, but nothing where we’re headed. I packed some blankets. But I assumed we wouldn’t be sleeping.” Stan frowned, annoyed at the aspect of staying up for days tracking down some weirdo cave drawings or something else easily explained away.  

 _Wait I know!_ Stan was up and below deck before Ford had the opportunity to ask about his sudden outburst. Stan came back out onto the main deck as Ford closed the trunk and lofted his daypack into the backseat. “How about this?” Stan held out the matchbox sized RV and grinned.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The trip had taken just shy of six hours of driving, the last hour and a half on pretty rocky roads. Thankfully the car they had rented was specifically rated for off roading. Stan wasn’t sure how much the rental place was gonna charge for damages if they came back with a busted axel or frayed brake lines. And they needed the extra insurance; the fjords weren’t mountains, but they may as well have been with how steep some on the roads had gotten. His backside was feeling pretty sore by the time they pulled up into the valley, GPS and Ford’s anomaly radar signaling their arrival. But Good Lordy, was the sight worth it.

When they crested the incline, the rocky hills seemed to part and give way to a sea of white feathery snow with a tiny splotch of blue from the ocean in the distance. The afternoon sun peeking out through the clouds, visible rays of light painted across the sky. A flock of birds taking off from their hiding places in the rocky cliff face.   

Stan whipped out his new phone and snapped a picture to send to the kids when they got back to the ship. The money maker in him thought that it would be a great place to give tours in the Spring. Too bad he wasn’t an Icelandic National, he could charge more with how remote this place was.

Ford had leaned out of the door with a set of binoculars and was peering down the valley to the ocean’s edge. I can see what I assume are the farms I was told about. It’s hard to tell with all this snow. Not a great time to travel to Iceland, is it? Ah well, my anomaly tracker is indicating that what we’re looking for is on this side of the valley. Somewhere along the southwest face. We should be able to hike there.”

Stan snapped his head around to frown at Ford, brow furrowed and eyes squinting in agitation.

“Or we could drive?” Ford shrugged his shoulders, hand open showing his palms in show of peace.

“Didn’t that man say they lose people out here in winter? And you wanna hike?”

“That’s why we left our information with him. In case we get into trouble, they know where to start looking for us.” Stan grumbled and sat in the passenger seat expectedly.  

They’d passed through Aðalstræti; a homestead that tried to pass as a village where any impression of road ended. They had spoken with the information desk there (really just a room in someone’s home) and notified the mayor (homeowner) of their intentions.  

Ford huffed, but pulled his head back into the car and slowly eased it down the hill and into the valley. The tires leaving deep fissures where they displaced the snow.  

The snow was fairly deep, about mid-shin if Stan was brave enough to step foot outside the car. He, however, was not a masochist and had absolutely no desire to trudge through the frozen valley. Not until there was proof of treasure, anyway. Then only the fires and dogs of hell could stop him, and he was pretty confident he could take a few dogs.   

There were very few trees about, very little of anything really. Everything was buried deep in the snow.  A spindly little tree could occasionally be seen eking out a living sheltered by a crevasse or overhang. Stan suspected despite the snow, water was uncommon enough that the environment wouldn’t support large trees. This was probably why the stone pillar was so easy to spot.

They’d meandered along the south wall of the valley (fjord really, but, meh) when Stan caught sight of it. It was nearly as tall as the trees back in Oregon, minus the branches and needles. A mix between grey and tan, it towered over their vehicle; intricate patterns were carved into the surface that had been worn away with time.

Ford pulled the vehicle up beside the pillar and both brothers sat awed (or rather, Stan clambered well over the center console, bracing his palms on the driver side door to press his face against the window. Ford simply raised his right arm to accommodate Stan in his personal space).

A stone stairwell had been carved into the wall of the fjord. The stairs were paralleled with rising walls made of stone blocks and primitive mortar. The walls stopped midway up the steps and gave way to standing platforms that supported more pillars and an archway that seemed finely carved and ornamented. The steps seemed to lead to the top of the fjord wall where Stan could barely see a stone mound with what appeared to be windows or a doorway. The walls of the mound were also covered in aged carvings. Jackpot!

Ford was grinning, mouth pulled so wide it looked like it would split his face in two. He pushed Stanley back into the passenger seat and reached into the backseat for his journal and a pen. He began sketching at once. Six fingers splayed over the leather spine, six others delicately and furiously recording his first thoughts of the structure. Stan rolled his eyes and smirked to himself while letting out his best put-upon groan.

“Just a few moments, Stanley. I just need to record a few thoughts.” Stan was only marginally annoyed. But he had an image to keep, and Ford would sit and sketch for an hour if Stan let him. He resigned himself to wait, sporadically letting out a frustrated grunt to annoy Ford.   

The short hike to the bottom of the staircase was slow going due to the deep snow and Ford trying to walk and write at the same time. They had a day pack each, filled with tools, references, and a day’s worth of food and bottled water. Although, Stan was sure they could spare some weight and just drink melted snow, but Ford had frowned at that.

The stairs were unusually clear of snow, as if they had been swept a few days ago and snow had been gently blown over the steps, covering them in a thin layer of white powder. They still looked frozen enough to require careful maneuvering as to avoid slipping. Stan eagerly strutted forwards, hell bent on finding treasure at all costs. He regretted his actions the moment his foot connected with the first stone step. It felt like a static shock had traveled through his leg and up to his stomach. Stan jolted in astonishment, leaning backwards and losing his balance, pinwheeling in place. Ford leaned forward and caught him by his armpits, hands clasping over Stan’s sternum. 

“Are you alright? What happened?” The sides of their faces were smushed together and Ford’s voice was loud next to his hearing-aid. Stan flinched slightly.

“Nothin’, I’m fine. Musta stepped wrong ‘r summin’. Pinched a nerve.” Stan repositioned his foot on the stone step. “See, fine now.” Ford slowly released him, patting his shoulder as he took a position in front and to the right to Stan. _Makin’ sure it’s safe. Jeeze Sixer. I can handle a few stairs._

They ascended slowly, taking time to inspect the pillars and carvings as they went. A tiny stone structure with its roof collapsed sat tot eh left on the first platform. Stan took a look inside, but there was nothing but snow and stone; nothing of interest. They continued up the stairwell. 

The mound turned out to be a stone facade built or carved into the face of the fjord wall. The doorway lead into sort of an open porch structure. The stone roof above their heads was dark, a cast iron ring hung from a chain from the peak. Remnants of ancient torches were jammed into the bends of the chandelier and in the sconces on either side of the open arch and the dark stone double set of doors before them.

Unlike the carvings on the stone elsewhere in the ruins, these doors were covered in an elaborately carved dragon. “A wyvern? Fascinating!” Ford flipped another page in his journal and continued sketching. The wyvern sat on its haunches with its wings spread wide, neck and head turned towards the top the doorframe, eye socket dark.

“Looks like they lit this place with torches. I feel like I’m inna Indianna Jones film.” Stan flicked the sconce, ancient torch splintering with the lightest touch.    

“Excellent, I perfect chance to use my striker.” Ford adjusted his glasses before rolling his shoulders and throwing his pack down, digging through the front pockets in search of the tiny flint and steel set he had purchased.

Stan frowned at him and pulled a flashlight form the outside loop of his daypack and flicked it on. Ford glanced up from his pack, flint and steel in hand, triumph dropping from his face like a stone. “Welcome to the twenty-first century on Earth, Poindexter.” Ford looked put out, posture slumping. “Eh, you might as well keep it out though. Never know when you may want to start a fire.” Ford let out a breath though his nose, expression turning soft with affection.

Stan smirked and started shining the light around their little covered porch. Earthenware pots and vases in a disparity of sizes and shapes littered the corners of the alcove. Some were broken, shards spilling out around them. Stan shifted his feet and saw that he had trampled on some, turning them to powder.   

He turned his attention back to the doors and saw that the dragon’s eye was not dark. Instead, the eye was inlaid with a gem that reflected in the flashlight’s beam. It was golden yellow, pupil elongated. Stan felt his vision shift, distorting as his eyes altered to match the eye of the dragon.

He cocked his head to the side. One eye seeing the doors in front of him, the other seeing himself and Stanford standing in the alcove. Stan watched Stanford repack his bag (making sure to tuck his journal safely away) and stand, hovering just behind him to the right. He’d given up on trying to draw everything, instead taking out his camera phone and snapping several pictures.

Stan blinked rapidly, vision returning to normal. This place was familiar, but he couldn’t place why. He knew it had something to do with him, some set of worshipers or something, but he had forgotten exactly what or whom it had been.

Stan reached out to place a hand against the left side door, but pulled back just before his fingertips brushed the dragon’s head. Electrical shocks shot down his fingers, making his hand twitch. Had this place been warded against him? He risked a quick press of his hand and felt something try to push him off. _Damn_.

“Hey, Stanford, when yer done snapping pit’ures, can you give me a hand with this door?” He glanced over his shoulder to see Ford noting down something on his phone. _‘Bout time he figured out how to use that note function!_

Stanford slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket and stepped up beside Stan to help push the one of the doors open. The room beyond was dark and echoed with the sound of the wind. “Nervous?” Ford asked, smirking at Stan, eyes cast smugly. “Sure, but wherever we go, we go together, right?” Stan returned with his own grin holding out his gloved hand to Ford. “Right!” Ford took it, fingers laced and pulled Stan past the doorway with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this one has references to Skyrim because I just can’t fucking help myself. It doesn’t play a major role in the main story though. Other than Stan gets a new trophy 
> 
> A whole line of *~*~* usually indicates a significant interlude, such as a few hours to a few days. Mainly so I don’t bore you anymore with tiny details even though I love writing them. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now.
> 
> Oh, and this chapter is where I try to keep names straight. Let me know if you catch onto the pattern.


	4. Adventures Through Nordic Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and his brother venture into a Nordic ruin filled with puzzels, nightmares and more questions about Stan's budding powers.

The temperature was immediately different upon stepping into the crypt. The stonework acting as an insulator against the cold Icelandic environment. The room beyond the doorway was wide, but low; the ceiling hardly two feet above their heads. The ceiling and walls were rounded, blending into one another with smooth curves. If Stan had been younger, he could have jumped and smacked the stone, but his knees were 50/50 on good days.  

The chamber looked as though it had been a mine once, large pillars left behind after removing material to help support the ceiling. The pillars were positioned lengthwise, one in front of the other with a gated door at the other end of the room. Cast iron and well-oiled enough to be resistant against rust. “Barred. Hmmm. You said you had a crowbar?” Ford turned to Stan, rubbing his chin. “’Course.” Stan flipped his pack around and dug out the crowbar before inspecting the gate. The metal nearest to the stone was probably the weakest due to moisture exchange. He could try bending the gate there first and yanking it out of the door frame. That was only if the gate was standalone and not integrated into the wall itself. Maybe he should have considered bolt cutters, or a welding torch.

Ford had wandered off, taking more pictures and (now that he was able) pulling his journal out to write some more. _Whatever, let the alpha male do the hard work_. He slipped the crowbar between the stone and the iron rod and put pressure on the crowbar. Nothing. _Ok, not a problem_. He grabbed the end of the bar and pushed as hard had he could. Nothing. Stan breathed and held back the flow of curses he wanted to scream. Instead he rubbed at his forearms and pushed against the bar with all his weight. He felt movement! It was the crowbar bending under the pressure. The profanities that echoed off the walls reverberated to the surface, startling an artic fox that had been hunting in the snow.   

Stan was ready to start throwing things and turn the iron to rust and splinters with a snap of his fingers, when he heard a quiet flip of a latch. He felt a rumble through the stone as some counter weight was dropped, lifting the iron gate he’d be ashamed to admit had not even dented.

“Hey. My crowbar!” Stan smacked at the tool as it rose with the gate, knocking it loose and wincing as it tumbled down on his head. “Ow!” Stan rubbed at his head, kneeling on the floor, and watching the dust fall. _Part of the wall it is_.

Ford exited a hidden corner of the room and Stan stopped grumbling long enough to get off the floor. “There are a series of symbols in ancient Gaelic engraved along every wall. The pictographs seem to be recording a religious or spiritual ritual that was performed here. I believe the inhabitants may have worshiped an interdimensional being, these glyphs look familiar.”   

“Hey, next time you wanna start touching random shit, let me know, will ya?” Stan shouted, collecting both of their bags, and packing away his crowbar. “Hm? Oh, yes, fine.” Ford said, completely not paying attention to anything Stan had said. Stan rolled his eyes but held back a complaint when Ford continued speaking. “I took some rubbings for further study. I may have to consult some of my old notes. Shame we tossed those journals in the Bottomless Pit, I could use some references now.” This wasn’t the first time Ford had made a passing remark lamenting the loss of the journals. If he was so upset, why not take a trip back to Gravity Falls and start re-recording all the weird things that existed there. They were on ‘ok’ terms with most of the creatures there, it wouldn’t be hard. Instead, Stan simply reminded Ford of the danger their contents possessed. “Those things were dangerous. Inert of not, some of that stuff should be forgotten. And hey, it can’t be _that_ hard to learn ancient Gaelic. Heck, I learned your stupid nerd code in about a year. Should take you a few weeks to a month, tops.”

Ford looked apprehensive…and maybe a little resigned. “Dare I ask if you decoded everything?”

“I had that thing for thirty years, Stanford. Yeah, I read the whole thing. Could’a probably recited some pages before the whole memory wipe thing.” Stan was a world class liar, born with a silver tongue that had matured to tempered platinum with age, but he disliked lying to his brother. Sure, lying by omission was one thing, but flat out telling a falsehood gave him acid reflux. At least with Stanford. It felt…wrong. But Stanford didn’t need to know he could recite every word on every page.

Ford looked sheepish, right hand grasping at his left arm nervously. “Look Stan, I…” Stan interrupted him, “Hey, its nothin’. You missed me, but you were mad. I missed you, but I never bothered to reach out to ya. We both needed to grow up.” There was that bile taste again, but Ford really didn’t need to know about… _that night_ either.

“I know, but I…what I wrote…what I was thinking…you know that it was just...” Ford was distraught, or approaching that limit. “I didn’t mean it.”

A moment passed. Then another. Stan sighed. Stanford had meant it. But that was a bucket of rotten fish Stan had no intention of ever opening. Even if he did, this was not the time nor place to be doing that anyway. “Hey, we’ll talk later. Right now, we have a crypt to plunder and ancient squiggles to archive. We got time.” Stan had placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder and Ford returned Stan’s smile with a weak one of his own, but a smile nonetheless. “Now common, we got ourselves some real adventurin’ to do.” Stan slung both bags over his shoulders and charged through the open gate, Ford left with no other alternative, followed him.

The second room opened into a towering chamber with a massive and ornate central pillar. Stan could hear drips of water echoing in the cavern. A rickety wooden ramp led them up to a platform that had been carved into the central pillar. A ledge bordering the room had once been connected to the central pillar, but the bridge had collapsed. Under the debris, was a body.

Everything passed the poor sod’s topmost ribs had been crushed, just a pile of grey bones and threadbare cloth that looked as if it would turn to dust. One hand, stretched out in front, was wrapped brittlely around what looked like a sculpted lizard or bird foot. Ford knelt down and broke the bones, drawing the thing up with him as he stood. 

It was a bronze, three-toed dragon’s foot. Ford held it up close to his face and Stan supplied the light. It glinted slightly, but was tarnished. It was highly detailed for its time; the toes having folds and creases to represent skin and scales before shifting to the claws. The sculpture seemed to end at the ankle joint.

“But where would they get the reference from? A Comodo Dragon? But where would they get one? Did the Nordic people travel that far south? Could one have been traded? Was it alive? No, preserved, most likely; it’s doubtful that it would have survived this climate.” Stan had rolled his eyes and pulled out a tiny notebook from his back pocket, half a pencil from the lip of his beanie and scribbled down a few key words that Ford had prattled off. “’Comodo dragon, preserved foot, how far did travel’, Got it” Ford sighed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing, Stan’s small notes did help him remember his spontaneous questions.

Stan pocketed the sculpture and his notebook, Ford’s jacket already near bursting, and they ascended the ramp to the next level. The distance from the central pillar to the next floor was too far to jump. “There doesn’t seem to be another way across. Too bad, this is all stone; my magnet gun is useless.” The answer was simple.

Stan’s steady aim with the grappling hook and squeezing Ford to his side with his free arm, ensured hasty progress. Albeit, slightly bruised ribs and a sore shoulder. Man, he was getting old. Ford had squeaked in surprise when Stan had grabbed him, sputtering his hesitation at this “horrible and highly dangerous idea”, but Stan had only grinned maniacally and held on tighter. They landed roughly. Or rather, Stanford had landed in his classic hero pose and Stan tumbled head over foot, landing on his ass. He hurt, but it was worth it.

Ford stood, brushing himself off and peering to the top of the cavern. He let out a low whistle. “These ledges go all the up. It appears that this room acts as a central connecting point to all surrounding chambers. I don’t see any direct connections, though. Maybe there are stairs elsewhere. Hey Stan, you mind waiting a bit while I take notes?” Ford glanced back at Stan who was still a bit winded from his reenactment of Tarzan. “Stan?” Stan waved him off, shuffling on the floor to lean against the wall. Getting old sucked. He didn’t recommend it.

While Ford sketched and buzzed with energy, Stan rested, drinking some water, and munching a granola bar. It was bizarre, this place felt creepily familiar, but no matter how much he tried to pull the knowledge to his head, it seemed to flitter away before he could get a good look at it. It was almost as if the ward had protected this place from his mind too. And wards. That didn’t make any sense. The shack was still warded against him, but he had no problems going in and out. What made this place different? It grated at his mind that he couldn’t remember. Sure, he’d gotten used to having gaps in his memory, and he had tried to ignore that he just _knew_ things now, but it was like a lyric to a song you just couldn’t get right so the song plays at the edges of your mind driving you crazy, and you can’t even remember the name of the song or who sang it and you couldn’t even ask anyone because you killed them all and…ok, time to calm down. His gums had started to twinge as he clenched his dentures together.

He’d been meaning to ask Ford if he knew how to regrow teeth (he didn’t) or at least invent something like a serum that could (he could, but it was painful). ARRRGH! Why? Why just _know_ things unless it was about something that was helpful? Stan wanted a cigar to chew on, but he settled for a stick of gum. ‘Course smoking was how he lost his real teeth, that and bare knuckles boxing in Mexico. There was more than one night he spat out a tooth, but his winnings paid for passable, if not functional, bridges. Come to think of it, he was lucky to have his eyes after some of those matches.

Eyes. Eye. Yellow eyes, _what_ was _that?!_ Yeah, anything that was a depiction of him was a window, but the dragon or wyvern wasn’t a depiction of him…was it? Or not him, not _him_ him, but past him. _Oy. I need an organizer._ Stan rubbed his ~~eye~~ eyes, two eyes, and glanced around his little corner. He caught sight of three waist high stone structures that looked like sliced bread loaves. Or maybe he was just hungry. Regardless, there were three of them, and they seemed to be facing each other, meeting in the middle. He couldn’t tell if the floor between them was dusty, broken or what, but there was something weird about the pattern those mounds made. Stan called out to Ford.

“Hey, Sixer! There’s a-a thing that might be interestin’ for ya.” He didn’t spare the mental energy to actually describe anything, counting on Sixer’s gravitational pull towards him to do the trick.

“Find something?” Ford had returned and Stan pointed out the stone mounds. “Whadd’ya make of those?”

Ford hummed as he wandered around the stone figures, crouching down to trace the designs on the faces. Stan eased himself off the floor, grabbing his bag, and making his way over to Stanford. He approached Ford’s left side and stood directly in the middle of the three mounds. Both brothers jerked at the eruption of red light from the floor and designs on the stone. They both turned towards the bang of a gate opening to their right that Stan had not noticed before. “What the hell…?” Stan mumbled slowly and took a step. Almost instantly, the light vanished and the gate closed again. Ford strode over and peered through the gate, Stan followed, weirded out by the light a moment ago. “It’s a puzzle. Two people must work together to open the way through. See…” Ford held the flashlight aloft and pointed to the other side of the room beyond the gate. “I suspect that to open that one, we’ll have to make the totems match with their counterparts on this side.” 

“Hey, I got this one.” Stan patted his brother on the shoulder, fully intending to not stand in the ring of creepy red light again. Ford nodded and returned to the ring, the light appeared again and Stan ducked through when the gate rose. He stood in the center of the room, and froze. 

Shoot, he hadn’t bothered to look at the symbols. “Um..Sixer?” he called, hesitantly, voice filled with embarrassment. “Stand facing the next door” Ok, he could do that. He turned to his left, facing the barred doorway; he could see Ford from the corner of his left eye. He turned a bit more to look at Ford again.  

“No, Stan like this. See me?” Ford waved and adjusted his body to face directly between two of the figureheads. Stan grumbled, but turned to mimic his brother. “Reach out your left hand to the nearest one. This one should be a whale. Or, at least it kind of looks like a whale.” Stan rolled his eyes, stepped forwards and tried to spin the figurehead. It didn’t budge.

“Stan?”

“Hang on a minute, would ya? This thing ‘s heavy.”

He placed his hands on the top of the stone for leverage and pushed. The figurehead sank into the floor slightly before turning. “Oh”

“What?”

“Nunin’, Sixer. I got it.” He pressed down again and turned it so the whale was facing him. Ford was right, it _did_ look kinda like a whale. Kinda. He returned to his previous position.

“Ok. Turn right, the next should be a snake” Stan did as Ford directed; this one did look a bit more like it was supposed to.

“The last one’s an owl.” No, it wasn’t. It looked like a cat’s head on a bird body. Whoever carved the mural likely had never seen an owl before. Stan’s call of “Got It” was drowned out by the clang of the rising gates.

Ford joined him a moment later, holding out a granola bar to Stan. He waved it off and pulled out the empty wrapper from his earlier one. Ford shrugged, tore it open and began to eat as they walked.

The hall they followed didn’t go up; they went down. “The rooms above aren’t connected?” Ford asked himself quizzically.  

“There might’a been a ramp or sommin that use ta be there. There was a lot o’ debris back there”. There _had_ been a ramp, but it had been vaporized and left only dust. Stan scowled at this tidbit of information entering his brain involuntarily. Ford didn’t seem to notice, instead he just hummed and made a few notations on his phone as they walked. Several of the rooms they passed looked as though they were residential rooms; a couple of bedrooms, what looked like a galley with a stone oven and hearth, a room with what looked like it once housed a pile of tables and chairs, and a tiny closet that smelled rancid that neither of them were interested in examining further. Ford paused in another room to take a rubbing of a pedestal with a bronze plaque covered in Gaelic that he couldn’t remove. The room gave Stan the creeps and looked like a place of worship.

They continued their descent down, passing more wall carvings that Ford photographed with his phone. Stan rolled his eyes; his phone was filled with funny pictures of himself, Ford, places they had been, weird animals and the occasional picture of something for Ford. Ford’s camera had exactly one picture of the kids, a scanned picture of the two of them on the original Stan O’War and a picture of them both on the Stan O’War II. Oh, and about three hundred pictures of anomalies and glyphs and interesting plants and rock formations and…well, there wasn’t much of his family. Stan had wanted to call him out on it, but he didn’t know how to voice his concerns in a way that didn’t sound insulting. 

The hall finally ended at a spiral staircase that disappeared into the darkness below. Ford pulled out a glow stick, cracked and shook it, and let it drop. Ford counted under his breath to three, almost four. “It’s about…um…what’s the acceleration of gravity on Earth, again?” Ford frowned. “I don’t know,” Stan did, “but I’d say it’s about five or six stories down. You want me ta go first?”

“I’ll lead, just stay close behind me. And keep that grappling hook ready. We don’t know how sturdy this wood is.” They started down, taking slow steps at first, shifting their weight. The wood creaked and popped, but held firm. They made it past a full spiral before they were emboldened by the lack of instability. Ford started in with more deliberate steps and Stan resumed his normal near stomping gait. It was a mistake.

The wood below Stan gave way and he would have fallen the entire way down had his reflexes not been in top condition. The grappling hook was deployed before he’d even passed the next level and lodged itself in the wood above them, shooting passed Ford’s head and causing him to backpaddle away from the edge. Stan hung in shock with bits of wood dust and debris raining down on his head.

“Stan? Are you alright?”

“I’ll, um, I’ll meet’cha at the bottom!” This was embarrassing. “Just be careful, Sixer”

“Will do” Ford muttered quietly and began making his way, with less confidence this time, down the steps. Stan toggled the button on the grappling hook to lower himself slowly down until he reached the bottom of the stairwell. It was pitch-black. He could see the bobbling of Ford’s light above him. He was reluctant to let the rope grow loose and disengage until Ford could reach him. The echoes around him told him that the room beyond was massive. And he could hear scurrying.

He held a death grip on the handle of the grappling hook until Ford rounded the last spiral. “You good?” he said, shinning the light at Stan before growing concerned and continuing in a whisper, “What’s wrong?” Stan glanced at Ford, then back at the doorway. Ford spun and looked too when a squelching sound emanated from the room; the flashlight held at an angle pointed away from the sound to not attract attention.

Stan gulped. He had an uncanny feeling that this was gonna be his wort nightmare. Ford steadied himself and directed the beam of light into the room.

Yup ‘Worst nightmare’, in the flesh, or carapace in this particular case.

A giant spider the size of a Great Dane paused mid step, turning towards the two and hissed.

_FUCK!_

The thing was dead in a matter of microseconds; its body flung across the room from the force of four plasma rounds being fired at it from close range. The pistol smoking in Ford’s hand.

“Did I ever tell you what happened on that road trip I took the kids on?”

“Yup, that’s why I shot it. I have no intentions of dealing with that.”

Stan also suspected that his panic attacks over the ordeal that had kept Ford awake some nights after that had something to do with it.  

With Ford’s help, they pulled the grappling hook free and tentatively entered the room from hell, Ford taking point and pulling Stan along behind him by the hand. Stan only felt some shame at hiding his face in the back of his brother’s coat.

The room was filled with webbing and things wrapped up in that webbing that Stan had no interest in looking at. Ford carefully lead him through the room and towards the next doorway when he heard a quiet insect clicking. He risked a glance up at the same time Ford flicked his flashlight up. There was a large hole in the top of the ceiling and a large black mound slowly descending and reaching its way too many legs out.

_NOPE!_

Stan bolted for the door, Ford right behind him, not daring to look back as he felt the ground shudder slightly with the creature’s landing. He saw something goopy and gelatinous whiz above their heads, but he was NOT turning around to look. They made it through the door, Ford shooting a gap in the webbing that covered it, and bolted down the hall beyond. When Stan could bring himself to stop, he realized Ford was not behind him.

He heard some plasma shots ring out and a loud grunt.

Stan took a second to steady himself before turning around and heading back into the hall to rescue his brother. Another rumble ran through the stonework and a bright light emanated from the end of the hall. He rounded the corner to smack right into Ford.

“What the hell?” Stan winced at the light.  

“I stole a stick of dynamite and a smoke bomb and trailed the powers behind us and fired a shot. Those smoke bombs are incredibly flammable, you shouldn’t be using them.”

Stan just laughed with the release of adrenaline and hugged his brother tightly. “Come on. The rest of the way is safe…probably.” It was Ford’s turn to laugh.   

The heat from the inferno in the spider room, now turning it into a literal room from hell, escaped through a series of vents in the stonework and erupted out to the surface. The same fox from before jumped directly into the air with all four feet when a gust of warm air puffed across its tail. It brought its body low to the ground and thought about going back to bed. 

Ford and Stan walked along the hall that opened up as it went, ending in a tubular room with a circular door at the end. The walls were again covered in murals. Most prominent was a yellow-eyed dragon and a procession of people worshiping it. The eyes made him uncomfortable. And it had everything to do with the fact that he had to fight to keep his vision his own.

Ford was snapping pictures like a paparazzi catching a celebrity in the nude, and grinning widely. Stan just made his way over to the door and peered at the markings in the center; ignoring the face of the yellow-eyed dragon glowering at him. His vision shifted momentarily, looking at the top of his own head and Stanford taking more notes behind him. He placed a hand on the door and shook his head to return his vision to normal. He blinked a few times and rubbed his fingertips on the bronze disk at the center of the door. There were three holes and a semicircle blob that almost looked like a foot print.

Stan pulled the bronze claw from his pocket and inspected the underside. There were scuff marks on the pad of the foot and on the tips of the claws. _A key?_

“Hey” He called out to Stanford, using is free hand to wave over his shoulder.

“A dragon’s claw for a key?” He adjusted his glasses. “Unusual choice. Though depictions of dragons were revered as beings of great strength and power in Viking culture. The structure of this chamber seems to indicate this was done deliberately. Enemies would find it alarming and hesitant to go further and allies would see a welcome protector. Brilliant design. And the door is unusually intricate. It must have been designed to protect something exceedingly significant.” Stan perked up at Ford’s suggestion.

“Significant like treasure?” He couldn’t help the toothy and predatory grin from enveloping his face, his eyebrows waggling up and down. Ford rubbed his chin and returned Stan’s grin with a smug one of his own, “Could be. It could also be a pile of scrolls and books with more glyphs to study.” Stan frowned. “Way to be a buzzkill, Poindexter.”       

Ford just chuckled and took the claw from Stan and fitted it to the grooves in the door, “Well, only one way to find out.” The claw fit perfectly. Ford turned the claw counter clockwise until he felt the lock resist him, before turning it back to the starting position. The door jolted, and both brothers stood back as it sank into the floor with a stutter, Ford having kept hold of the claw. They stood, quiet exhilaration and trepidation coursing through their veins. “Ready?” Stan asked. “Always,” was the reply as they passed through the gateway to the unknown.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pointed out to be that including Rick Sanchez may be “messy”. So, I should clarify. To make things easier on myself; This Rick is NOT C-137. It’s a Rick I made up from dimension 40@10. That Rick came to dimension 46’/ Gravity Falls) in his travels because Rick Sanchez never existed in 46’/. It will be a loooooong while, But, we will meet up with this Rick in dimension 40@10. I do this because of a major plot point later. I have more notes than text for this fic to keep things organized. 
> 
> I keep typing hookshot like a dumb-dumb, so if this changes and I don’t catch it, grappling hook = hookshot.


	5. Draugr Battles and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epic fight at the end of a dungeon. Oh, and Stan finds out Ford still has nightmares about Bill.

This was another large room. Stan could just make out a weak smell of stagnant water. They slowly eased into the room, walls on either side that suggested a hallway before expanding out to the main chamber. The flashlight’s beam highlighted a set of tiered daises, one below the one they were standing on, a center dais and a staircase at the far wall that lead to a ledge surrounding the room. In the dark, the room seemed square, unlike the rounded and cavity like rooms they had passed through.

At the base of the stairs, there appeared to be something, but Stan couldn’t make it out in the dark. He took a step forwards and jumped as fire erupted from a ledge somewhere level with the lower dais. Ford started and dropped the flashlight; it rolled away off the dais and Stan heard it drop into water. _At least it’s not the shrinking light_. They could pick up another one in town. Stan quickly took status of the room; square, three daises, water at the bottom, stairs beyond an altar and a table. No threats. _We’re safe._

A sharp cracking sound echoed through the chamber as the stone slab covering the of the table split and fell to the floor. Oh right, that wasn't a table, that was a coffin. Well, crap.

Now he remembered. This was a cult that worshiped him, they built this hall in such a remote place to protect themselves from outsiders; they hadn't been popular with other tribes. However, dissent developed between the members, each one trying to vie for his favor. The zombie approaching them and drawing his blade was Shemlic. He had taken over by use of force and magic, banning the worship of Bill Cipher. He had taken a sword that had been made for Bill to use when he came into this world. It was cute how naive they were. He didn't need a sword, but he was relishing in the idea of terrorizing them with it and many more when he came through. Shemlic had taken it for himself as a show of dominion over Bill and had been cursed by the other worshipers. He didn’t seem too happy with this arrangement. In fact, he looked rather homicidal. Stan felt proud, although that pride was pale in comparison to the outright terror he felt watching the seven-foot zombie approach them. He really needed a secretary to keep track of all of his third-dimension dealings. Well, too late now.  

“Draugr” Ford breathed, frozen in place.

The slap-squish, slap-squish of the uncomfortably fleshy feet echoed as Shemlic gained his bearings and narrowed his gaze at the two of them. One black and empty, the other bright and sickly yellow with an elongated pupil. Stan’s eye shifted; double vision was not going to help. But he had no time to think on that now. The shiiing of the sword being drawn sliced through the air as if he’d swung the blade. The dull armor clanged with every jolt of his twisted and withered body. The sounds of his bones grinding against one another were audible. Stan heard rather than saw the creature’s jaw unhinge and gather light in the back of its throat.     

"This is like your dumb nerd game, right?" Stan could hope. "No, duck!" Ford shouted, hitting the floor; Stan followed suit, wrapping his trench coat over Ford to protect him.

Flames licked at the air above them, the heat burning the ends of a few hairs on Ford's scalp and stray threads on Stan’s beanie. When the flames dissipated, they both sprang up and ducked behind the marble statue of a phoenix. “What do we do?” Stan was too panicked to think of how he was supposed to lift the curse and he was the one who wrote the damn thing! “It’s a draugr, an undead protector of Norse burial sites. They gain strength the longer they’ve been dead.” 

Ok, so it's kinda like a Zombie, yeah. So, what was it that beat them before? Well before he had Dipper and Mabel and a really catchy disco song. Somehow, he doubted that would be an option this time. "I don't think a three-part harmony is going to help with this one. We'll have to think of something else." It was if Ford was reading his mind. “Is it normal for them to breathe fire?” Stan’s head was foggy with panic. Ford seemed in a similar state. “I…don’t know.” His lack of knowledge obviously making his anxiety worse.

The thing was getting closer. He could see through his left eye the draugr’s gaze land on the statue. Reacting on instinct, he wedged himself between the wall and the statue and used all his strength to push it over, Stanford following his lead. As the statue came crashing down, Stan threw two smoke bombs directly at the things head. They erupted and immersed it in a blanket of fog, blinding it long enough for Ford and Stan to use the grappling hook to clamber up to the ledge surrounding the room. Stan’s Bill eye blinked out of sync with his normal eye; vision blocked by the smoke. They heard the draugr roar something that sounded like words before a wind picked up and dissipated the smoke. They ran to the far side of the room, the steps leading back down to the platform the creature to their left, then right as they both turned around. Stan watched as he and Ford ran down the length of the room and turn. The angle made any attempted direct shot difficult. From the corner of his good eye, Stan noticed a mounted crossbow the size of his torso. Thinking took too much precious time, so he didn’t. He dove for the machine, pulling a bolt from the slot in the side of the mount and struggled to pull the string back. He felt Stanford at his side a moment later and with both of them, they armed the bow and Stan took aim.

And missed. DAMNIT! That thing had just sidestepped the bolt like it could predict where it was going to go! He watched himself and Ford set a second bolt, and Stan aimed again. This time trying to account for the draugr’s movements and closing his distracting eye. The second bolt hit home.

But Shemlic only staggered, it didn’t fall. It instead hunkered down and extended its neck to throw another fireball at them. Stan saw it coming. He pulled Ford to the corner again and braced himself facing Ford, protecting him. Thankfully, it had missed, the stone sizzling where the fire had struck. The draugr was headed up the steps towards them now. Stan grabbed Ford’s shoulder and pushed him in the direction of the collapsed phoenix statue. Stan ran along the ledge (watching himself and not Ford, thankfully), passed the crossbow and the steps (and the ascending draugr) to the other side. He dropped down to the third-tier platform, knees popping and aching, but adrenaline keeping him going. He aimed the grappling hook at the drauger’s head and pulled the trigger. He felt the claw strike.

He yanked with all his weight on the rope, claw digging into the flesh of the creature’s neck. It staggered again, body snapping back at the pull and tumbling down the steps. A zap and a pale blue light filled the air as Ford took a shot with his plasma pistol from the upper ledge. Shemlic jolted, then tumbled off the steps and into the pool of water at the very bottom. Stan closed his bad eye as the vision pitched and toppled end over end before immersing in water. He retracted the grappling hook and climbed back up to the central tier, meeting Ford in the middle of the room. “We need to leave. It’s not dead!” Ford’s voice was filled with resolve. He didn’t know how to win, but his experience and level headedness coming to the forefront. _A bit late!_

Stan stared Ford in the eyes a moment.

His brother really had no idea how to kill it. _Okay, Stan, you’re the expert here_. He really doubted he was really an expert as his knowledge of draugr was coming in random and inconvenient facts. _Think, Stan! Think!_ There was a trick to curses like this. Usually a riddle, he liked riddles. A poem, a limerick, or something. Hey!  

“You took an etching of that alter.” Stan spat.

“Pedestal and yes.” Ford couldn’t help but correct him.

“Fine whatever, hand it over.” And Stan had no time for it either. He snatched the book from Ford’s hands before he’d even drawn the thing completely out of his jacket pocket.

“How is this going to help?! I can’t read it.” Ford sounded exasperated.  

“Can it!”

Now Ford looked incredulous, like Stan had told him the last thirty years had all been a dream.

Stan let his mind shift and the nonsensical symbols on the paper began to take on meaning.

“Be bound, vile betrayer, condemned by jury,

‘Till restored sacred oath that pride hath rend.

Return the hallowed symbol of righteous fury

To you, our lord, time has no start nor end.”

Though Stan didn’t look, he could _hear_ the flabbergasted expression on Sixer’s face.

_You gotta be kidding. ‘Epic wizard quest’ this ain't_.

“We need to get the sword from it and put it on the altar to receive a blessing.” Stan snapped the book closed and handed it back to Ford who was gesturing too wildly to take it.

“You can read ancient Gaelic!? Why didn’t you tell me? How? When?”

“Not a good time!” And it wasn’t. The draugr had finally pulled itself up out of the pool. It looked livid.  Get the sword away from a fire breathing zombie. Yeah sure. Ok, let me get right on that.

Its eye locked on Ford. Well, shit.

“I've got more combat experience, I can keep him distracted while you get the blessing.” Stan blinked at Ford taking charge. A shiver of…something…licked down his spine. Huh.  

“Ok, sure, any ideas on how ta get the sword from’im first?” All well and good in theory, but useless without the pragmatic implementation.

Stan heard a clanking sound and turned to see Ford’s left metal arm gauntlet had expanded to form a shield the size of a large book. Ford nodded.

Stan tilted his head in response and worked on his brass knuckles before charging forwards. He stopped short and slid to the left before bringing his left arm up and wrapping his forearm around the draugr’s elbow joint, pinning his arm in mid-draw, sword barely passed the scabbard. _Holy Balls._ He was beefy for a dead guy. Ford had been only a few steps behind him, laser pistol firing at its left shoulder and shield bashing the fist holding the sword. It clattered to the floor and slid off the central dais to the one below. 

Ford and Stan exchanged glances. Stan swung with his right fist aiming at the draugr’s head while Ford did the same with the butt of his pistol. Stan disengaged the grapple and dove for the blade as Ford took the creatures attention.

The blade was a rusted piece of metal and looked untempered and better for use as a blunt weapon than a slicing one. He grasped at the blade handle several times, depth perception gone to shit with one good eye; the other tracking Ford as he zig-zagged away, taking pot shots over his shoulder when he could. One such shot caused him to stumble near the edge of the dais, Stan heard, then saw the pistol clatter over the edge.    

The double vision was really getting to him.

_Whoa shit_! He swung the sword impulsively to his right when second draugr sprang from the wall beside him. He caught the thing in the gut, causing it to double over. He raised the blade over his head and arched down, smacking its head as if the sword was a baseball bat. The skull gave far more that bone should have, especially one that was still encased in flesh, even decayed and peeling flesh.

His heart stopped.

The sword had shattered.

Shards of metal littered the floor, leaving only a tiny portion of the blade and the hilt in his hand. Shit. No. No, this was not happening. No.

Stan jolted, when is left eye was marred by flames. Ford screamed, barely having dodged being hit by flames by sliding off the center dais and on to the one below it. The left hand that had grabbed on to the ledge for easy leverage had been hit, prompting the scream.

That smell of charred flesh had once been a delight, but the knowledge it was Ford made his stomach lurch. He pulled put the grappling hook, aimed at the far wall and the corner pillar and fired. The momentum pulled him up and over the edge and into the middle of the center dais. His bad eye trained on Ford’s position.

“Hey ugly!” The draugr turned at the shout. Stan flashed the hilt, hiding the broken blade with his coat. “Looky what I got.” It roared, full attention now on Stan and the sword. Stan turned and dashed up the steps to the altar, followed by a sharp ‘whpish’ sound and a gust of air. It got close fast! But it was still too far away and Stan slammed the blade into the slot on the altar. 

The draugr roared again, but this time it sounded pained and desperate. Small bolts of electricity lapped at the draugr from the sword, but without the whole blade, the draugr kept marching forwards. Eye intent of Stan. Stan heard loud zap before watching the draugr pitch forwards, vision tumbling again and disorienting him. When is vision cleared, he could have cried with relief.  

Ford was standing, legs bent, panting as he held out his right hand, alien pistol smoking. His left hand a mess of red and dripped sluggishly. The relief was short lived, the draugr had regained its feet and resumed its march on Stan.

“Stan move!” Ford screamed. As long as he had its attention, Ford was safe. Ford could run. “Stan!” Ford fired several rounds, hesitant, careful to not miss and hit Stan in the line of fire.

It wasn't responding to the shots anymore. It barred down on Stan, his nose filling with the stench of waterlogged decay and rot. “Ford, get out! RUN!” He risked a glance at Ford though his good eye. The thing grinned. It turned and said something that took it to Ford's side in an instant. It latched onto Ford's injured arm and raised him into the air. Ford kicking his feet and swinging his good arm for purchase, leverage, anything to free himself. It's jaw hyperextending slowly as a ball of flames formed in its throat.  He could see the fear radiating from his brother through his second eye.

_Righteous fury, righteous fury righteous fury, righteous…_

He ripped off and slammed the brass knuckles down onto the altar. The result was instantaneous.

The bolts of lightning increased in frequency and intensity. The draugr shuttered and the roar it let out sounded more like a scream. Its body jerked, muscles spasming, hand clenched tight onto Ford’s injured hand. He was still struggling to break free, and likely didn’t have time to care about the electricity surrounding him. Or that it might be dangerous to him as it was to the creature.    

Ford caught a bolt to the side, the electricity burning through his coat. He screamed again and the wound welled with blood.

The curse had been lifted. The power animating the draugr was sapped away by the electric bolts. What remained lost cohesiveness and crumbled to dust, Ford dropping when the hand holding him disintegrated.

Stan had started towards the pair when he saw the curse begin to lift. Now he ran, sliding down on his knees beside Stanford’s body. He wasn’t moving, and the blood had seeped through his coat onto the stone, mixing with the ashes and soot.

_No no no no no no no._ Stan pressed his hand to the wound to staunch the blood flow. His other arm going to support Stanford’s neck and shoulders. Ford had passed out, forehead slick with grime and sweat. 

_No, not again._ He couldn't do this again. This was supposed to just be a side jaunt, a vacation after everything they'd been through. _No, Stanford, please!_ Stanford’s breath was shallow, and they were so far from any help. Stan’s eyes had shifted back to normal as soon as the draugr’s eye had melted. Now, both seeing what was in front of him, they welled with tears. Why Sixer? Why hadn’t it gone after him? He had the sword. He was trying to lift the curse! _Why…_

_To get at you. Your weakness._

It wasn’t wrong.

He clutched at Stanford’s body, pressing his tear streaked face to the fabric of his jacket. He would wait until he felt Stanford go, then he would…he would…

He felt the hand pressed against Ford's side turn cold. Blue flames, cold as ice, emanated from his palm and licked at the edges of his hand and fingers. The blood from the floor was pulled to the back of Stan’s hand; he felt it pass through his flesh and flow back into the capillaries in Stanford’s skin. Dirt and ash collecting on the back of Stan’s hand. He felt the skin beneath his fingers knit together, reconnecting severed blood vessels, muscle, and fatty tissue.   

Stanford was breathing. The wound at his side had closed, leaving only a bright rash and faint evidence of a deep bruise. A breath escaped Stan’s lips as he sat in shock for a moment. _Shit_.

Stan grasped at Ford's burnt hand, the cool flames healing the burnt flesh everywhere they touched. Stan traced the lines and creases of Ford's hand, watching the hurt dissolve away. Damaged skin sloughing off and new skin growing to replace it. Fingernails re-growing, to cover finger ends. Finger prints re-forming as the loose new skin tightened around the flesh of Stanford’s hand.

He was alive.

Stanford woke in a haze, eyes unfocused and slumped in Stan’s arms. He sudden coughing as his lungs drew in much needed air drew Stan’s attention. Stan was still holding his brother’s hand. It was red, and swollen, but it was intact. Stan brought it to his lips and kissed the curved fingers, tears freely flowing from his eyes. Stanford’s coughing fit slowed and he glanced back at Stan, eyes clear and focused.

“Hey.” His voice was scratchy; any impression of his brother’s gravelly voice would have been spot on.

“Hey, Sixer. You scared me there.”

A dry chuckle dissolved into another short round of coughing, before setting back down.

“I’m not outta the game yet.” Ford made a move to sit up fully, winced and settled back into Stan’s arms. He patted at Stan’s arm, and Stan, taking the hint, shuffled around so Ford could sit upright, leaned against Stan’s chest.

“I think that was enough excitement for one day…or a few weeks. Oooh, ow.” Stan could empathize.

“Yeah, everything hurts. There are even things that ought not to hurt that hurt.”

“I think we did pretty good for being sixty. I mean, we’re alive.” Ford shifted slightly, hand running down his injured side and prodding at the swollen and puckered flesh; he inspected his left hand closely to. “And very, _very_ , lucky. I may have to reevaluate my hypothesis on combat magic.” The turning of gears in Ford’s mind was audible. The click, click of interlocking teeth of the gears that powered Sixer’s mind.

“Uh-huh. You do-do tha’. I’m gonna…gonna jus’ res’ awhile.” Stan’s words were slurred and his tongue felt heavy and thick.

They didn’t move for nearly an hour.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Everything was slow. They’re movements, comprehension (well, Stan’s comprehension at least, Ford was probably “at the top of his intellectual game’) and breathing. As soon as Ford was ok to stand and walk a few paces to the discarded bags, Stan made his way back to the altar to recover his brass knuckles. He picked them up, feeling slight sparks dissipate through his body, and jerked in surprise when the action triggered a hidden wall to fall away, revealing a tinny alcove of a room. “There must be a connecting tunnel to the surface, it would explain why we haven suffocated and the fire hasn’t gone out yet.” Ford had crept up behind him and offered Stan a bottle of water that was half empty. Stan took it and downed the remains in two large gulps, a few droplets slipping down his lips and chin.

Stanford took the initiative again, striding forwards into the new room and turning on his phone to utilize as a makeshift light. “Hey, Stan.” Ford’s grin was audible. “I found your treasure.”

There was indeed a chest of a sorts in the tiny room. More a giant earthenware trough full of offerings to a statue. The statue depicted the same dragon that had appeared on the double doors leading into the crypt. Both its eyes were missing. _Thank you, Lord._ Neither Stan nor Bill had been religious. But he was _not_ giving thanks to the Axolotl. He was still pissed at it.

The trough was filled with gold and tarnished coins, some cut and uncut gems that Stan had no energy to identify, old pouches likely filled with teas and spices and salt, a number of small pendants and jewelry, and at the center of it all, a bowl of black sludge he presumed had once been blood. A couple of old scrolls were piled on the floor in front of the statue and, just as Stan predicted, Ford took great interest in.

They finally decided to decide later and Stan shrank the entire trough, (knocking the bowl of blood away first), taking off his beanie and using it as a makeshift sack. Ford was prodding at the mouth of the statue when a rumble traveled through the floor and a second secret wall dropped through the floor. “What again?” How paranoid were these people. Although, considering what he threatened them with, he could understand the precautions. Too bad it would have never worked.

After backtracking to grab their bags, the brothers carried on into the new tunnel that looked as if had been hastily carved. The ground sloped up every now and again, taking them up closer to the surface. Ford leading the way with his cellphone flashlight. When they reached the end (it had seemed like nearly an hour of straight walking) they came across another fricking wall, but this one had a pull chain clearly exposed. Stan tugged it, and the wall fell forwards, braking upon impact with the floor.

They were back in the central chamber with the massive center pillar. They had come all the way back around. “What the hell!? Why do that? “

“Fascinating, it must have been constructed as an escape tunnel, in case they were ever attacked, or a secondary exit in the event of cave-ins, or….”

“Yeah, whatever” Stan just wanted to get the RV set up. It couldn't drive, but that didn't mean they couldn't be comfortable tonight and get some sleep. _And check on Ford’s injuries again._ Ford kept wincing and putting more weight on his left side.                

Stan jumped and swung at the draugr dropping from the standing coffin to his right. The brass knuckles connecting with withered flesh and sparking wildly. The draugr slumped and fell to the stone floor, unmoving.

“Unexpected.” Ford simply blinked, not even fazed by the sudden attack, “The power that sealed the sword must have been transferred to your knuckles.”

“Should I leave them here then? I mean, look what happened to that guy when he tried to steal it.” Stan gestured back down the hall with his thumb.

“I think that they may have simply acted as a conductor of power. The sword would have acted as a conduit had it not shattered. Do you feel cursed?” Ford looked and sounded like he needed food and rest if he was disregarding potential danger form Nordic curses. “How’s this sound, if you can’t leave, we’ll return them to the altar and get you a new set?” Stan wasn’t going to try an argue that he might end up suffering the same fate as Shemlic; he’d deal with that hurdle if they hit it. 

“I'm just glad I got the treasure.” _And that you're alive. I could give two shits about the treasure_. Ford just rolled his eyes.

As it turned out, Stan was in the clear. They stepped outside of the main doors into the alcove and realized night had fallen. Stan checked his watch; the local time was almost midnight. The wind was picking up, and his RV was not rated for winter camping. Not without kerosene or electric hook up anyway.

They set up camp in the first chamber, deciding to avoid exposure in their weakened state. Stan used the shrinking flashlight to unshrink the RV. Ford did get to use his striker after all; building a fire with the broken and old torches round the first and second rooms. They heated up cans of beans, brown meat, and vegetables for dinner. A can of mixed fruit in sugary syrup served as dessert.

“Bet this ruined you for that nerd game.” There was a copy of the updated rule book on Ford’s bedside table on the Stan O’ War. Ford had yet to convince Stan to play a round, although they had created Stan’s character; a barbarian who specialized in two handed weapons and hand-to-hand combat.

“I'll admit, it's a lot more fun when the danger is imaginary. But I'll always have you watching my back.” Ford said from the other side of their tiny fire

“Always…” Stan paused, contemplating on teasing Ford. “…as long as there's treasure to be had. Otherwise, you're on your own.”

Ford laughed, knowing Stan had no intention of ever letting him face danger alone ever again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They shared the master bed in the RV. Master bed was really a glorified name as the mattress itself was hardly bigger than a full, but neither one of them was willing to fight with the fold away table to sleep there. They made it work. Stan wanted to keep an eye on Ford anyway, he had been wincing and being extra careful how he moved. His left hand seemed weak too; Ford had dropped his spoon a few times.

Stan lied awake for hours. He couldn't understand what had happened earlier. One second he was imagining a very short life without his brother (again) and the next he was harnessing powers he hadn't had in over sixty years. It felt...strange in this form. Like his body couldn’t handle it and his control was weak at best. Even now, just remembering the anguish at losing Stanford had his fingertips kindling tiny blue flames. Ford shifted in his sleep and Stan froze, fingers curling and putting out the magical fire as he turned to watch Ford.

He was still asleep, brows furrowed. Ford was curled on his right side, right arm curled under the pillow, injured left bandaged and resting on top of the blankets between them. They had wrapped nearly the entire roll of gauze around Ford's torso; Stan could see it peeking out of the open shirt Ford was wearing. Stan hesitantly reached out his hand, letting the blue flames rekindle and brushing them across Ford's brow ridge. His vision blurred again, eyes again taking on a yellow hue with elongated pupils.

He could see into Stanford's dreams.

He found himself in a field of wheat, a broken portal in the distance, the Stan O’War I and II sitting side by side, and an intact swing set. Stan felt a slight stab of guilt; his set had been in tatters, one of the seats busted. It was whole now, but the cracks were still noticeable.

He found Stanford as a teen, curled up in the dirt holding his glasses together and crying. The figure standing over him was all too familiar, and the chant of ‘Six fingered freak’ was all he needed to hear to understand Ford’s frame of mind.   

_God damn him!_ After nearly fifty years, Ford was still afraid of Crampelter. Stan sometimes wished that asshole was still around so he could knock some teeth out. It also explained some of Stanford’s quirky behaviors despite his status as a battle experienced, bonafide badass rouge wanted in two hundred and forty-seven dimensions. Like hiding his hands all the time, or looking shifty-eyed when cornered. Although that last one may have been reinforced with experiences in the multiverse.  

Crampelter continued to spew vulgarities as Stan drew closer, but the boy began to change, shifting into something pale and sickly white with translucent skin. Lopsided arms and spindly legs like a spider's and mouthlike a leech, but with four hooked teeth. Its words also changed trailing off from call Stanford a “freak and a loser who never got anywhere” to something more sinister. “You abandoned me. Left me in that bunker. Left me behind when I was no longer of use to you. You got bored and left me behind!”

Stanford himself also changed, growing older and more like the student and researcher Stan had only caught a glimpse of all those winters ago. He was still kneeling, only now he was muttering a quiet “No, no, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The thing then began to shift again, taking on the appearance of Stan himself at a teen boxing, then as he was when he had confronted Stanford in front of the portal all those years ago. “You left me behind, you ruined my life! It was supposed to be us forever.” His own words echoing in his mind like daggers. Ford let loose a wail, tears running rivulets down his face. It shifted a final time, taking on a very familiar shape, huge and menacing and with one glaring eye, "And it will be Fordsy, forever and ever until the end of time." It let out a high pitch, manic cackle and opened it’s one eye to show Stanford saying those very words in the mindscape and making that accursed deal with him.  

Ok, that was enough of that. Stan let his mind run on instinct as he fully entered Ford's dreamscape. "Piss off! Ya ain't here anymore and ya sure as shit don't matter!" It wasn't a lie either. Bill Cipher wasn't there anymore. It was just Stan now. Just Stan and a fuck ton of memories and regrets of another life. All on top of the regrets of this one. He snapped his fingers and the dream Bill erupted into blue flames as he approached the manifestation of Ford's consciousness. "Stan? What are you doing here? How did you get..." _Ok, you can play this cool, you know how your brother thinks of you, just do that and he'll think it’s a dream._

"Whadd'ya mean, 'what am I doin' here', Sixer? I'm always here. Someone's gotta keep you pulled to Earth.” Stanford stood, now dressed in black and with his quantum destabilizer strapped to his back; like he’d just come out of the defunct portal behind him.

“Yes, but you’re usually…ah, younger.” Ford nervously adjusted his glasses.

“What like this?” Stan felt his form change to what he looked like as a teenager. He tried to tap into Ford's subconscious and take whatever form came. He wasn't expecting to find himself in boxing shorts and gloves with a towel around his neck. And he certainly didn't expect to feel a busted lip and a black eye. But Ford seemed to melt from agitation and fear to calm and affection. Okaaaayyyyyy…

“Let's get you patched up.” Ford smiled, waving Stan in the direction of the swing set.  

Wait so this was what Ford considered a 'good dream'? "Yeah, thanks bro" Well, he was willing to sit through some doctoring if it meant his Sixer could sleep.

They walked over to the swings, each taking their respective positions. As soon as they sat, a table with first aid supplies appeared before them and the swings seemed to move closer together, bringing the brother’s next to one another. Stanford picked up a cotton pad and doused it with alcohol and began cleaning Stan’s wounds. He let him mind be directed by Ford’s subconscious, not speaking and pretending to wince every few moments.

He kept eyeing the area that his dreamself had stood, bearing down on Stanford. Sixer was still terrified of him. Still had nightmares and was still tormented by the memory of him. _Well damn._ What was he going to do about that one?

“He’s gone. He’s been erased.” Ford had started stitching the area above his eye now, small, and methodical.

“I know. _You_ know. I know everything you know” He was supposed to be a manifestation of Ford’s own mind after all.

“Then you should know I have to remind myself sometimes.” Ford gave a sad smile.

Ford had moved on from stitching the cut above his eye and moved down to the cut that appeared on his left cheek. The swings repositioning to give him better access.

“I’m sorry. For hitting you. For not believing you. For asking you to leave.”

“I know.”

“I know _you_ know, but he doesn’t”

“So, tell him. He does know, though”

Ford chuckled sadly. Stan had a feeling that Ford told himself that a lot.

“Does it bother you?” Stan paused before continuing, “that he calls you Sixer?” Ford frowned, eyes filled with guilt.

“Yes. It shouldn’t, but Bill perverted it. It doesn’t feel special anymore.”

Stan sighed. “So what names are off the table?” He figured. He’d been trying to refrain from calling Ford by that childhood name, but it slipped out sometimes.

“I’m actually fond of the moniker Poindexter.” Ford said with a sly smirk.

“So, tell him” Stan could do that.

“I really couldn’t” Ford knew full well that Stan would give him no end of teasing if he ever knew that Ford liked the name. _Too bad for him. I’ll tease him anyhow._

When Ford finally moved onto his split lip, he paused. It was clean, and didn’t really need stitches. Ford’s thumb gently traced Stan’s bottom lip.

“You gonna do it this time?” Stan blinked. Where had that come from. He’d let his brother’s mind take over too much. I wasn’t in control of his words.

Ford just smiled, self-deprecating and full of remorse. I was a resounding ‘No’ as if Ford had spoken aloud. What was he saying ‘no’ to?

He was just about to ask, but instead of opening his mouth, he opened his eyes. He was back lying in bed, thumb rubbing slow, blue flaming circles on Stanford’s forehead. He could see Ford’s eyes moving back and forth under his lids. He was waking up. Stan squeezed his eyes shut tight and willed his eyes to return to normal. He didn’t notice that the blue flames still trailed from his thumb.

“Stan?” Ford blinked slowly, eyes unfocused without his glasses. “Shhh. Sleep. You were having a nightmare.” Stan smiled softly. “I’m here Poindexter. You’re safe.” Ford just smiled and closed his eyes again.

Stan decided he should keep an eye on Sixer’s dreams, maybe twist them around to be more pleasant. Stanford had once said he preferred dreams with him; he just needed to spin things to include him now rather than him then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those frantically typing away about the EYE!, the EYE! Ford saw the EYE! This is not a mistake, it IS intentional. Remember, this is from Stanbill’s point of view. We don’t know how Ford feels or what he thinks unless he tells us. This is not a plot hole, I promise.


	6. Booze, Dreams and Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford discuss women, men and flirting. And they drink Cosmic Sand.

Stan woke in a haze, confused at why he was in the RV and not the Stan O’War and why Ford was currently tucked in to his side. His arm was being held captive. His brother had always been snuggaly. He’d woken up a number of times when they were young with Ford pressed up against his back or draped over his chest. They’d both sought comfort in one another; being isolated kinds did that. It never bothered him that he didn’t have friends. He had his brother.

He knew Stanford was bothered by it though; Ford always assumed that Stan would have been more popular if it wasn’t for his extra fingers. It was part of the problem, but truth be told, Stan was not really good with people. Sure, Stan was a world class scam artist, always had been even in the second dimension, but he’d always had trouble opening up to people. Stanford was the first in a long chain that had actually broken through to see him as vulnerable. It was embarrassing how much he wanted Stanford Pines to himself. But ~~Sixer~~ Poindexter was haunted by him, the past him, and he needed to do something about it.

Ford woke some short time later and they ate cold beans and brown meat, water and checked on Ford’s wounds. He was healing well, heavily bruised ribs and a swollen hand that hand lost its ability to grip things (though it didn’t look all that swollen), but healthy, infection free, _and beautifully alive_.  

He’d spent part of the night crafting a simple pleasant dram for his brother; just a short jaunt down a river in the Stan O’War I, looking for Waddles. He’d let Stanford’s subconscious take it from there. It had been worth it when Ford woke up all smiles, albeit a bit sore.

Thankfully the environment had been kind, and no new snow had fallen in the night. They packed up, Stan shrinking the RV, and they made their way back out of the valley; stopping briefly in Aðalstræti to let them know to not send out a search party (they wouldn’t have, not worth it to try and rescue two stupid tourists bent on getting themselves in danger, but Ford insisted).

Stan drove the six hours home. Ford had offered to take over half way, but Stan could see him fighting to stay awake. He, too, felt tired, but he only had to stop for twenty minutes to get through a dizzy spell, Ford napping in the passenger seat. He really needed to get a reign on this burst of magic. It was taking a too much energy from him. He felt punch drunk like after an extended cage a fight, or after he’d entered into someone's mind.

That was one thing he never let on before; entertaining someone's mind was his specialty, but it was taxing and a draw on his powers. That's why he'd preferred making deals. The deal allowed him into people’s minds willingly; he didn't have to fight their mental defenses because there were none. It was similar to the vampire thing where a vampire can’t enter a person’s house unless invited, except it really was nothing like that.   

His human body was much weaker and much more limited. Magic was significantly tiring, it’s really no wonder he’d never tapped into it before; with no memory of magic, his body lacked the energy for spontaneous releases. Well, the magical kind anyway; human hormones were weird, and he should know having been one for sixty years.

Time passed strangely for Stan, the minutes dragging by like hours and yet the six-hour drive ended rather abruptly when he passed the city limits of Reykjavik. He pulled off on a deserted road and shrank everything, excluding their day packs, to make unpacking easier on both of their backs. Ford woke when he got back in the car and was perturbed that he had napped the whole way.

Ford had insisted on taking the rental car back that night. Stan had protested, saying they could pay the extra for dropping it off late and Ford didn’t need to aggravate his injuries, but there was really no arguing. Ford had sweetened the deal by suggesting they eat out that night; find a local pub, get fed and get drunk. “And maybe you can find someone to flirt with” Ford had suggested with a sly smirk. Stan was sold. He liked flirting, and he was kinda terrible at it. Ok, he was abysmal, but it was fun to see the girls (and some guys) play it off or laugh hysterically at his attempts. And Ford needed a reason to laugh. He’d seemed…off. Stan assumed that it was just from the exertion, but Ford had been shooting him sideways looks (when he’d been awake). He’d done it last night too, staring at Stan when he thought that Stan wasn’t looking. Stan felt guilty for _not_ feeling guilty about manipulating Ford’s dreams. _Man, If I went to a psych,_ they’d _need a therapist._

He’d messed with Ford’s dreams and mind before, hell he’d freely entered it and possessed his body before, but…this was different. It was more…….intimate? Sort of. Maybe? Stan didn’t know. It just felt strangely different now than it had before. Maybe it was because he was physically here now, rather than just a mental projection through Ford’s mind. _Or maybe it’s because I’m his brother and I shouldn’t be messin’ with his dreams._ But he wanted to. He _wanted_ to see what Ford thought about, what he dreamed about. Stan wanted to be able to influence that, be integral to it, and that was steering way too close to other issues that would drive his hypothetical therapist to the loony bin.

They dropped the car off (paying slightly more for the dings to under carriage) and Ford asked the clerk if he could recommend a place to grab a bite and a pint. Stan played dumb as Ford and the Clerk spoke in Gaelic.

“Do you have any suggestions where we could get some good food and good alcohol?” The counter attendant paused, assessing both Ford and Stan with a bewildered frown. He spoke slowly, as if Stan and Ford would dislike the answer.

“Aie, there’re a few places ‘round here. Depending on what’re ya lookin’ fer? There’s a club that makes good chips if yer lookin’ to go on the lash, but I suspect ye might be a bit…uncomfortable with the club scene.” Stan can see Ford’s face twitch in confusion at the regional slang, but pick up on its general meaning. _This youngin thinks we’re too old. HA! Should taking him out partyin’ with me._

“If’n yer lookin’ fer somthin’ a bit quieter, I suggest The Drunk Rabbit off’a main street. It’s usually hoppin’ on the weekends, but you should be alright. I think a game’s on tonight, so it might be a bit rowdy.”

Ford just held up his hand to stop the guy, wincing slightly as the man’s eyes widened at his six fingers “Thanks for the tip. We’ll check it out.” They both ignored the muttering “Wot, Jesus, freak man has six fingers” as they left. Ford rubbed at one of his extra fingers shamefully. Stan wanted to wring the fucker’s neck, but he’d learned to let Ford deal with his own battles. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to know Gaelic, right?

“Wha’d he say?” Stan tried to force a smile. Ford gave him a sidelong hairy eyeball that lasted too long for Stan’s comfort before responding.    

“He said the Drunken Rabbit is a good place. It’s off main street. Though it might be loud tonight; apparently there is a sporting event being televised.” Ford’s voice took on a slight condescending tone, as if Stan should know what the guy had said. Wait….

SHIT!

He’d read…fuck!

Stan scrambled for an excuse, anything, anything at all. _Ah…ah…shit, um…_

“Hey, I said I could read it, not that I spoke it.” Ok, so that was kinda believable, now how was he gonna explain how he could read it. _Think, stupid, how’re ya gonna play this?_

“And how did you come to learn how to read an ancient form of Gaelic anyway? I don’t recall you taking an interest in foreign languages before.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “¿Entonces soy estúpido?”

Stanford looked understandably speechless. “¿Qué te hace pensar que nunca tuve otros intereses?”

“Stanley, I’m sorry. That was rude. I just didn’t understand why Gaelic of all languages. My apologies.”

Stan smirked and flung his arm around Stanford’s shoulders, “Está bien, Sixer. Puedes pagar por las bebidas como una disculpa.” Ford rolled his eyes. “Don’t I always pay?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After getting lost a few times, and Ford making him try asking directions (Stan had done so, but asking for the “Small Rodent has intoxication” purposefully, had gotten him a few weird looks and continuous laughter from Ford), they found the pub a street over from the park. The place had a mid-sized crowd, mostly locals there for the game. They sat at the end of the bar away from the TV screen with a pint of Guinness each. Stan wasn’t a fan, and he could tell Ford was having a rough go of it, but it was the local favorite so why not? While his Sixer picked at an order of Fish and chips, Stan had to stop himself from inhaling a burger. About halfway through their meal, Ford pushed his half-finished glass towards Stan with a wrinkled nose.

“I always preferred vodka, myself. Or…” Ford looked around subtly, checking to see if anyone was watching before pulling out a small flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Can I tempt you?” He said, shaking the flask slightly at Stan.

Stan raised an eyebrow over the glass Ford had given him and downed the last of the beer in a few quick gulps before asking, “What is it?”

Ford smirked, “You’ve had it before. I haven’t got much left, but I think we earned a sip or two.” Ford unscrewed the cap and quickly took a sip before hiding it under the counter from the bartender. A tiny trickle of black, blue and pink with sparkles of white running from his lip.

When Ford turned back to Stan, he was discernibly affected by whatever it was in the flask. His pupils had blown wide and his skin was flushed. Sixer was more drunk than _he_ was and Stan had downed twice as much as Ford. What they heck was in that thing?

When the bartender was again distracted with another customer, Ford brought the flask back onto the bar and gestured it towards Stan with an expectant look. Stan grumbled and snagged the flask, taking a large gulp, and choking slightly at the burn, barely getting the flask out of sight as the bartender came and collected their glasses.   

Stan carefully (and rather failingly) kept a straight face as Ford ordered two shots of Whisky and a glass of flavored vodka for them both. As soon as the bartender left, Stan brought the flask back up, pressing it into Ford’s chest and coughing into his arm.

It did taste familiar. It was the same stuff Ford had offered him in the Fearamid. It had hurt then too, but now he knew what it was. _Cosmic Sand?! Where in the multiverse did he get that?_ But of course, Stan had to play dumb. He just gave Ford a pained look, eyes watering, “Never took you for a fan of the strong stuff.”

Sixer looked smug, smug and predatory. It was a good look on him in Stan’s opinion. “You could fill whole books with the things you don’t know about me. Ten, by my last estimation.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“Alright, smart-guy, how’s about you start by tellin’ me what that stuff is and where you got it.”

Stanford took a second sip before tucking the flask away and began recounting his adventure in Dimension fifty-two and Jeheselbraum the Unswerving. They didn’t even notice the bartender dropping off their drink order until Stan nearly knocked his over.

“You _liked_ her.” Stan gestured with his glass of vodka, sloshing a bit over the side.

Ford blushed, “No I didn’t. Well, _yes,_ I did, but not amorously. She was intellectually stimulating and she knew so much about so many topics. I would love to see her again and pick her brain.” He smiled wistfully while twirling his glass.  

“That’s not all you wanna do” Stan chuckled.

“Stanley, you are impossible!” Ford glanced at Stan from the corner of his eye.

“Did you kiss her?” Ford nearly choked on his drink

“Stanley!” Stan thought scandalized and red was a better look on Ford than smug and predatory.

“Did you?” He wasn’t gonna let this go.

“No” Ford’s tone suggested he’d thought about it though. 

“Did you want to?” Stan really wasn’t gonna let this go.

Ford didn’t respond, just averted eye contact and blushed even harder.

“You did, didn’t you?” Stan arched an eyebrow.

“If I answer in the affirmative, will you shut up please!” Sixer looked like he wanted to fall into another portal or anything to get away from the conversation. Stan just let out a sound of affectionate ridicule.  

“Damn! Wish I’d gotten to talk to the gal that took my brother’s fancy. You were up in a monastery with her, _just_ her for weeks and you didn’t put the moves on her? Not once? Poindexter, common! You gotta do better than that! And she was a party-gal too! Ah! What a wasted opportunity.” Stan lamented his brother’s loss. He couldn’t say why, but he wasn’t going to explore any ideas that involved rebound crushes and one-eyed triangle dream daemons.      

“I was more interested in ending Bill Cipher at the time and recovering from brain surgery. Besides, she knew everything about me. If she’d been interested, then she would have said something.” Stan thought Ford sounded unsure.

“Yer just tellin’ yerself that to lessen the blow that you missed yer chance. Man, Nerd, do I gotta give ya pointers on how to talk to women?”

“I do not need pointers, Stanley. I charmed my way into interdimensional courts, lead rebellions, spoke with professors and scientists that are centuries beyond our understanding of science, and was a speaker at the intergalactic Senate as a representative from Earth 46’\\.”

“Ok, but were any of them women?”

“Some, yes.”

Stan looked surprised. “Of those species that reproduced sexually and defined their species by distinctions between those sexes, yes, many of them were ‘women’.”

Stan just sighed. Sixer was so frustratingly accurate and precise about things that didn’t matter. “Ok, check out that one there. She’s sittin’ by herself, but she wasn’t that long ago. Her friend, the blonde over two booths down, went to flirt with some guy and has been over there awhile. She looked lonely and disappointed that the guy flirted with her friend. All you gotta do is go talk to her. Pretend yer a tourist and ask her somthin’ funny, like ya don’t know the language that well.”

“Stan, she’s too young. She looks in her thirties. She won’t respond well to me.”  

“And you look a hell of a lot younger than you are, so just go.” Ford really didn’t look Sixty. He’d aged remarkably well, Stan was jealous.

“What about these?” Ford held out his hands before him, fingers spread to draw attention to his extra pinkies

“Believe it or not Sixer, most people don’t give a flyin’ fuck. They might think it’s weird at first, but tha’s it.”  

Ford took a breath, downed the rest of his glass, and took the shot of whiskey for good measure before walking over to the brunette sitting by herself.

Stan watched his brother make a circuit around the room, weaving in and out of people standing around and coming up to the woman’s side. Stan could tell Sixer was nervous. He opened and closed his hands a few times, gearing himself up to make the opening line.

Stan’s phone beeped. He blinked, attention truing to his pocket. Mabel had sent him a picture text. She and Dipper were shopping for Thanksgiving with their mom. The cart seemed to be overloaded and Mabel was squishing her cheeks with glee at the size of the turkey and the number of pumpkin pie crusts dipper was stacking. Stan could see a bit of Rebecca Pines pushing the cart, but she was mostly out of frame. He grinned and sent a quick text back saying where they were. He and Sixer had agreed that they would call the kids via video chat on Thanksgiving Day; the time difference allowing them to talk to the kids early enough so they didn’t interrupt dinner. Stan also had plans to call Soos and the Mystery Shack. Melody had made arrangements to stay in Gravity Falls and the relationship seemed serious. Stan was overjoyed; Soos deserved to have someone special in his life. He’d just finished typing out a “Goodnight” to Mabel when he noticed Ford approaching him, looking a little awkward and put out.   

“So, it turns out that she’s homosexual and has a crush on her friend who is undeniably heterosexual and was not disappointed that she wasn’t on the receiving end of an unwanted attempt at flirting but rather that her friend didn’t pick up on her own attempts.” Ford said in one breath, slumping down on the stool and burring his face in the empty glass.

“Oh”. Stan knew that, but there was a chance she would flirt with Ford in a desperate attempt to make her friend jealous.  

“Yeah, ‘Oh’”. Ford mumbled dejectedly, running his finger on the damp lip of the glass. Stan tried signaled for a refill, but the bartender was facing away from him.

“Wha’dya say to her?”

“’Hello, do you have knowing the resting room in the ceiling?’”

Stan spat out his drink. No wonder she’d laughed. Sixer had just about as much charm as he had back in high school. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to stifle a chuckle.  

“’Do you have knowing’, I gotta remember that one. What else?”

“She spoke English, and said that it was probably the funniest openers she had heard. I asked her name, Lisa, and if she would like to sit and talk. She told me about what happened and I said I understood. Unrequited affection is rough.”

“What did she say about yer hands?”

“She didn’t.” Ford seemed reluctant to admit the fact. Stan smiled to himself, glad to be proven right.

“Why did you pick her anyway?” Ford asked, gesturing to the woman whose friend had returned looking annoyed. Apparently, her bout of flirting with the mystery man had not gone well.

“I figured she would be easy for you to approach? Less likely to wave you off if you fumbled-up” Stan had thought it was obvious.

Ford rolled his eyes. “No, I meant, why a woman?” Ford looked shocked at himself for speaking so candidly and looked skeptically at his empty glass.

Stan himself looked a bit surprised, but recovered quickly when Ford showed signs of discontent. “Sorry, I guess I assumed, ya’know, with what I remembered. My bad.” Ford pulled the flask back out, took a quick sip and returned it to his pocket.

“Since I know you are going to ask; that one.” Ford pointed subtly. Stan’s mind had not caught up other than to helpfully supply ‘ _blue-grey tweed’._ He shook his head, “Sorry?”

“My type, in men, I mean. The one leaning against the wall in a blue-grey tweed jacket.”

Stan’s eyes cast around the room before landing on the man in question. The man was tall, about six and a half feet, had salt and pepper hair, looked in his mid-forties, maybe early fifties. The man had a great body. Stan could tell the man was fit and had a tapered triangle shape to him; wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He was wearing the blue-grey tweed jacket, a light blue shirt with a dark blue tie and white pants. The guy was dripping Oxford Professor. Stan could imagine why Sixer would like that.

“So…” Stan prompted

“So?” God Sixer was dense.

“So, go talk to him. And you call me ‘knucklehead’.”

But he didn’t go. Stanford just blushed impossibly redder and hailed the bartender (loudly) for another round of drinks. When Stan prompted him again, Ford just shook his head and avoided making eye contact. When the bartender returned, he pulled the glass to him and chugged like a dying man and his first taste of water.     

 “How’d you get there anyway?” Ford looked confused at the non-sequitur.

“You said you’d passed out and woke up in a mountain monastery with tall, dark, and seven-eyed hovering over you. Why’d you pass out?” A soft ‘ah’ escaped Ford’s lips.

“In my travels, I somehow found my way to a second dimension. A flat world from my own perspective, where everything looked like line segments bobbing around. I’d thought it was Bill Cipher’s home-world. After speaking with Jeheselbraum, I learned it was just one of infinite versions of the world Cipher burned. I may have even come across a version of Bill there, and just didn’t know it because of my third-dimensional eyes.”

Ford seemed to go into himself at his next statement, eyes downcast and full of repressed longing. “A dimension where he hadn’t burned his home, where he hadn’t committed such atrocities…where he hadn’t tricked me.”

Stan really should address that. He should. He should also tell Sixer who he was and had been. He should tell Sixer about his feelings and…he should do a lot of things. But he was a coward, always had been, even back then when he was invading people’s minds. The difference now was, he was man enough to admit he was running.

Time to regale Sixer with a round of my misadventures then.

“You said you wanted me to tell you the story of how I chewed my way out of a car trunk, right?”

Sixer perked up, “Yeah, how did you wind up in like that?”

Stan had recounted the tale of getting into a fist fight with a gang member in a bar in Arizona along the border. The guy had lost, but he went and got some buddies. They had cornered him in an alley, beat him and stuffed him in a trunk. Thankfully they were sluggish and uncoordinated and drunk off their asses and had left the car unattended that night. Stan woke up with plenty of time to eat and tear through the cushioning separating the trunk from the backseat and was able to get away. A jagged piece of glass from a broken bottle was enough to cut through the ropes.

Seeing his brother’s expression at his more dangerous misadventures, Stan moved onto funnier tales about running the Murder Hut/Mystery Shack. About finding gnomes breaking into the shack and trying to give him as an offering to their queen which prompted him to use his football skill to punt them out, about going toe to…hoof with one of the manitaurs and losing (he was man enough to admit he’d been no match), about the guy who tried to pay admission fee with a baby goat and the goat just stayed (It kept the gnomes away), and trying to get rid of a Hawktopus that had found its way into the crawl space.

 Stan then moved onto stories with the kids. His poor attempt at engaging with the kids at the lake (So then I just found some random kid to show how to tie a barrel knot). Mabel’s endeavor to match him up with Susan Wentworth at the diner (She had soooo many cats. I think I dodged a bullet with that one). His rivalry with Gideon and getting glued to a chair and stuck in the Pioneer Day stocks (I had tomato juice in my underwear). The kids fighting over Ford’s old room (they’d switched bodies and I ended up telling Mabel all about male puberty). Terrifying the attendees of Woodstick with a hot air balloon that unintentionally said ‘I Eat Kids’ (Stan, please tell me you didn’t actually shoot at anyone). His adventure in the cavers under the town and punching a pterodactyl in the face while it was flying (You, WHAT!? But you’re afraid of heights!). And their terrifying zombie escapade that ended in a horrid musical number (Wait, HOW did you break their skulls? You just…just _stepped_ on it? How…how strong are you?). Ford had laughed himself sore and they’d gone through so many rounds of dinks they’d lost count.        

Stan had just recounted his purchase of Summerween props with ‘Stanbucks’. "If I'm not walking out of the store with a great deal, then I'm walking out of there at speed." Besides, it was for the kids. And he knew that fake blood was just going to get tossed after the season was over anyway. He was just offering charity to take it off their hands. They should be thanking him. Ford seemed to disagree.

"Stanley, you can't just steal your way through life."

"Why not, done an ok job of it so far. Its either that or sittin' on a street corner, and I'm not gonna sit here and pretend I still got the body fer that". Well shit. He'd gone and said it, hadn't he? He really was drunk. Now would come the guilt and the water works and god knows what else. Damnit, he'd been trying to keep that tidbit of information from Ford, spare his feelings. It wasn't like he had done it all the time, and he was real choosy about his clients. Only had to get rough a few times and he never let himself get drunk or get messed up with any shitty powders. Only got roofied once, and the guy who did it got the shit beat out of him by Jimmy Snakes. They crashed in some chick's hotel room while she gave an eye witness account that the guy had fallen across some chairs. She had been a sweet gal. Didn't remember her name, though.

He could see the wheels grinding to a halt in Ford's head, lips puckered to take a sip form his drink. The astonishment was clear as day. Then his expression changed, his eyes drooping and mouth twisting up in revile. _There's the guilt. Damnit, Poindexter, it does no good to worry now. I'm fine._

To his credit, all Ford did was sigh and run a hand over his face. "I wish I'd have had the maturity enough to pull my head out of my ass long enough to realize you might have needed help." He slid his left hand across the bar and placed it over Stan's. "But we're here now. Doing what we always wanted to do. I'm studding anomalies and you pulled some solid artifacts from that crypt." He chuckled, eyes full of quiet exhilaration. He paused for a moment, grip tightening on Stan's hand. Trepidation creeping onto his face as he swallowed. "That is,...are you....you _want_ to be out here with me,...right?" In that moment, Ford looked like the nervous preteen that clung to Stan's arms after being ridiculed by a classmate; begging Stan to tell him that he wanted to be with him, not just because they were brothers, but because he wanted to be. That used to be Ford's biggest fear, that people were nice to him because they had to be or were supposed to be, rather than because they actually liked him. Stan wouldn't have teased him even if he wanted to (and he _did_ kind of want to). He flipped his hand over and interlaced his fingers with Ford's He took a sip from his drink and flashed a flirty smirk, "Always, Sixer. And forever"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They stumbled the whole way back to the ship, laughing and grappling at each other’s shoulders. He’d shown Sixer the text from Mabel and they both agreed to pick up a souvenir or something that said ‘Reykjavik’ on it for them. Sixer also agreed to start working on a set of portal mirrors he had scribbled about in his journals and sending one to the kids. It would make communication easier, and depending on the size of a stable set, would allot them to meet their hug quota. Both brother’s craved physical affection, having been denied it for so long.

They unsteadily made their way on board the Stan O’War and below decks before Stan collapsed in a heap on his tiny cot. Feebly attempting to kick his boots off.  

“Oy. Beds 're too small. Should'a gotten a double.” He mumbled, arm and leg hanging off the side of the bed.

“This _is_ a double, Stan.” Ford sat on his own bunk to properly remove his boots and undress for bed. Stan just rolled slightly, untangled himself from his trench coat and threw it to the end of the bed.  

“You know wha' I mean.” They had contemplated on installing a queen, but it wouldn’t fit. They’d opted for the current arrangement. Ford just laughed.

Stan was starting to love hearing that sound. Hell of a lot better than screaming. No wait, screaming was good, it was sneezing that he couldn’t stand. He remembered being in Ford's body when it was overtaken with a sneezing fit. He had refused to inhabit Ford's body for weeks after that. Pain was interesting (well it wasn't anymore now that he had become intimate with it, but at the time it had been so strange), but the involuntary spasms irritated his molecules. Ford screaming had been nice to listen to once, he isn't sure if it still was though; more recent memories reminded him that it wasn’t. He might have to ask Ford to scream for him sometime to see if he still liked it.

“And get kicked in the middle of the night on a regular basis? Not likely, not to mention your shedding. And you put out heat like a furnace. We didn’t need to worry about heat in the RV.”

Stan snorted. “You like it though. Crawled inta my bed often enough when we were younger. Think my silver medal boxing match was the last time.” He missed it. There were a number of times he rolled over in the back seat of his car or a shity motel bed expecting his brother to be curled up beside him.

“Stan, we were in high school by then.” Ford had removed his jacket and undershirt, opting for a white sleeveless similar to the one Stan used to sport. Stan eyed the star tattoo on Sixer’s neck. He’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to play that song and tease his brother relentlessly. For now, he just closed his eyes and hummed.  

“Yup. An'you were so worried 'bout my eye, you slept next ta me to check on it through the night.”  

“It did look terrible.” Ford agreed, sliding under the covers, not bothering to worry about his nightly routine. They’d even forgot to reset the coffee pot. _Eh, fuck it._

“Yeah, but I woke up the next mornin' with you all nuzzled up in my armpit.” Stan couldn’t help but needle Sixer. It was too fun to get him riled up.

“I was not!”

“Were to!”

“Oh, enough.” Ford dissolved in to another fit of giggles. Ok, yeah, laughter was definitely a winner. He could listen to it all night. He hummed in contentment, eye closed and arm draped over his face. He was almost asleep when he heard Ford's tentative call. "Stan?"

"Hnmm?" The bed shifted slightly where the mattresses met and Stan felt something fluffy press into the back of his head. He felt the vibrations of Ford's voice travel through his crania to his gums.

"Goodnight"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while. Way longer than it should have, but I was writing two chapters at once and got distracted by writing future chapters.


	7. It Was Good While It Lasted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford enjoy thier last day in Iceland, before the cat tears its way out of the bag.

Stanford had been wandering back and forth between the main cabin and the engine room for nearly half the day. Stan had heard some rifling of papers and the soft ‘thump’ of books being shifted and re-shelved. He also suspected Sixer had send a few texts out to Dipper; telltale clicks of Ford’s untrimmed nails on the touch screen and quiet cursing as he struggled with the device. His Sixer would always be more comfortable with analogue medium, but Stan figured that slow adjustment to recent technology was due to Ford’s experience with alien technology. It was like trying to get a teen from today with smartphones and the internet to work and program an IBM 7030 supercomputer. Heck, he and Sixer had grown up during the golden age of super computers the size of whole rooms and he doubted either one of them could program one. Although, Ford had built an interdimensional gateway and Stan had built and programed an interdimensional biomolecular scanner, but…eh, it didn’t matter if the analogy worked exactly. Sixer would get the hang of texting eventually.

What bothered Stan now, was the fact that Ford had been, not avoiding him exactly, but rather making an effort to be elsewhere. Stan wanted to head back into town and get the twins some presents, maybe even send them out if they could, but Sixer was too wrapped up in his current project. He was trying very, _very_ hard not to let his worry tap into Sixer’s mind, and he was letting paranoia set in over Stanford’s knowledge of his ‘condition’. Sixer was fine. He hadn’t noticed anything. Stan had come up with reasonably credible excuses for his slip-ups. He was in the clear…right? Stanford was even warm and open that morning and showed no signs that he thought that an evil demonic dream triangle had been reborn as his brother and said brother had regained all his memories. If Stanford was acting normal, then it was all good…maybe. Stan knew he should have left well enough alone.

Sixer had had another nightmare. Stan had woken up to a damp shirt collar and Sixer reaching across the center table to wring his hands in Stan’s shirt. They’d been at sea for months, and sure Sixer had been struck by nightmares before, but he’d not actively reached out to Stan before. Stan was usually the one to initiate comfort. What had gotten Sixer worked up this time?

Stan had run his fingers over Ford’s, slowly urging him to let go so Stan could roll over. His eyes were met with Ford’s brow, beaded with cold sweat and eyes clenched tight. He really shouldn’t risk it so soon, influencing his brother’s dreams, but his heart ached and Ford was unconsciously seeking comfort. He raised his hand, thumb faintly flickering blue and rubbed tiny circles beside Ford’s eye. Stan felt his eyes shift before being pulled into Ford’s dreams.

Bill…again. It usually was when Ford divulged the topic of his night terrors to Stan. Before it was reasonable, expected, and matched Stan’s own concerns. Now it was just wearisome and a bit annoying, if not troublesome now that Stan remembered. Now that he was slowly regaining his abilities. For now, he would deal with Ford’s fears and deal with the rest when it came; it really was physically taxing to do this in human form.

~~He~~ **_Bill_** was again taunting Ford, reminding him of their deal, of how it had never been officially severed. It had; as soon as Ford had stopped work-…wait. Had it? To break a deal, either partner had to retract their promise; He had supplied Stanford with the knowledge his brother craved and in return, Sixer had tried to build a portal. _Succeeded in building._ Sixer had succeeded and only after he realized where the portal opened to (after it was open) did he shut it down and make efforts to keep ~~Stan~~ Bill from entering his mind. Their deal, their _bond_ , had never been revoked. _Well, Shit._ This put a wrench in the cogs. _Damnit._

Stan let his dreamscape projection shift into the younger image that Ford’s mind designated and wandered into the wheat field. By the time he got to Sixer’s side, dreamBill had taken on his Bipper form (He didn’t care what Shooting Star said, it was a terrible name. It made it sound like they were a Power Couple), and Ford was in pleading and desperate tears. Now Ford’s desire for comfort made sense. Stan used his power to dispel Bipper the same way he had lost control of Dipper before, by pulling Ford’s mental Mabel out and having her tickle the fiend into submitting. Looking back on it now, it was ingenious to use Dipper’s weakness against him, if a bit humiliating. The Bipper manifestation laughed himself into a puff of smoke and Stan drew out Ford’s inner Dipper to take his place.

Ford was exuberant. “KIDS!” He embraced the two siblings in a bone crushing embrace. “Oh, God, Thank you. Shhhh, it’s ok. I’ve got you. He’s gone now.” Ford rocked the two back and forth and the dream siblings responded the way Ford expected them to; they cried and clung back. Stan took the last few steps to reach them and laid a hand down on Sixer’s head, ruffling his hair. “You alright there, Poindexter?”

Sixer turned his head up to look at Stan, face still mended from the last time he was here, and took a sigh of relief. When Sixer didn’t say anything, just held the kids and smiled up at Stan. “You wanna take the kids and play on the swings, or give’em a tour o’ the Stan O’War?” He really didn’t know what to do here. Ford let go of the kids and stood, turning to face Stan. The siblings took each of Ford’s hands in theirs. “I think….that’s a great idea.” Ford’s face seemed to melt and lose all trace of fear or worry. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Stan stayed in Ford’s dream so long, he himself fell asleep, consciousness pulling back into his body just before falling into REM sleep. He’d woken up to a cup of coffee being held under his nose and Sixer smirking at him.      

They’d gone through the treasure haul after a few more cups of coffee each to help an embarrassing set of hangovers. The coins were sorted into piles based on metal type and likely country of origin; Stan had pulled up a book on Ford’s tablet on old coins that had helped and subtly showed Ford how to use the app. A number of coins were set in a bowl of distilled vinegar to get them clean. The gems were sorted by type, size and cut; Stan kept some gems for himself and the kids: a pink rough stone that Ford identified as Tugtupite for Mable, a light blue and white swirl stone that reminded Stan of the color of the ocean near shore for Dipper (Ford called it Larimar), and a piece of ‘Fool’s Gold” for himself (he was all too familiar with it, having sold it in the Mystery Shack as real gold a few times). He urged Sixer to pick one out, finally choosing a piece of snowflake obsidian that had been shaped into a blade point. Stan also snagged a piece of rhodonite while Ford wasn’t looking. The rest were put in a pile to be dealt with in experimentation, gifts or be sold. Stan swiped a ring with two interlocking triangles. He also pretended not to see Ford wrap a leather band with a compass ( _Vegvisir, a symbol to provide guidance to wayward souls,_ Stan’s inner Nerd provided) around his left wrist and conveniently forget to take it off. There were a few other pendants with various symbols that Ford didn’t recognize and Stan refused to recognize and were set aside for later study. The scrolls were gathered and quickly brought to the top cabin with the rest of Stanford’s research material. And that was the last Stan saw of Ford, except for the occasional trip down to the engine room where Ford stored his more volatile experiments.

And that was it. Now here Stan was, sitting in the galley texting back and forth with Mabel about what they wanted for Christmas and assuring her that he and his brother didn’t need presents (and not being able to give her an address to send it to anyway). And Ford was furtively zipping back and forth between the cabin and the engine room, trailing papers, and rank odors with him. 

Stanford’s actions were normal, (well normal for Stanford, they were bordering on unhinged for other people) so everything was fine. He just need to play the part of lovable and eccentric con man until he could adjust to his new memories. He could do that. He’d been a con man his whole existence, it was his bread and butter. However, he had never had to beat down an oncoming existential crisis that he could not deal with in present company.

What was even more alarming, was Mable had picked up on his suspicious knowledge. Mabel had been working on some holiday chemistry homework and was having difficulty figuring out how to balance chemical equations and Dipper was texting Ford.

**I wanna ask Grunkle Ford how to do it, but Dipper has been texting him for like 10 whole hours about science.**

**_Maybe I could help._ **

**No offense Grunkle Stan, but you’re not all that sciencey.**

**_Try me._ **

She sent over a picture of her homework and Stan worked it out on a napkin. It really was simple,

6 CO2 + 6 H2O → C6H12O6 + 6 O2

He took a picture of his work and sent it back to her with a brief explanation.

**_You have to remember to count your elements. See how there are 18 O’s on the left, you have to keep the same amount on the right. Take a look at your next problem and work it through with me._ **

**Wow Grunkle Stan! I just checked with Dipper and it was right! Did Grunkle Ford help you?**

Crap.

**_Hey, I know some science too, I fixed the portal remember._ **

**True. Ok, the next one has a lot of B’s in it.**

They worked through the second problem together and he instructed her to try the next few on her own. He needed to be more careful.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was two hours until dinner when Ford came down and approached Stan. Stan, meanwhile, had kept himself busy by flipping through several different online articles on dream psychology and mental manipulation while having an Arctic Fishing article open in case Ford walked too close.

Ford looked exhausted, and a bit crazed, like he’d been obsessing over something. However, as soon as he noticed Stan looking, his demeanor changed, perked, and nearly split his face with a disingenuous grin. Stan did his best not to be offended by his brother hiding things. Ford was an inherently closeted person; wasn’t the whole reason everything came crashing down around them was Stanford’s inability to place his trust in others? He’d been trying, so, so hard lately; Stan wasn’t expecting Ford to share everything.

And, he would be a hypocrite if he said there should be no secrets between them. Ford wasn’t the only one hiding behind a veil of charm.  

“How are you feeling about heading out for dinner tonight? We’ve got a few more days before we need to renew our tourist visas.” Stan blinked at his own choice of words. He had become acutely aware that his inner voice and speaking voice no longer mimicked one another. He had tried to continue his habit of running words together and using slang; He’d let his accent slip. Stan wanted to blame it on the fact that he hadn’t spoken much that day. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. The truth was, it was exhausting, needing to be careful about his pronunciations, how much knowledge he had (he’d already let some things slip), and how much he was aware of the things around him.

Ford, however, didn’t respond, either waving it off or just not taking the time to care. All he did was collect the envelope of local currency from the drawer by the stairs, and smiled at Stan. “Bistro?” Stan nodded, “Sure.”

Ford looked…soft. Just…soft. Stan was overwhelmed by the desire to hug his brother, to bury his face in the crook of Sixer’s neck and… _and what?_ His gums tingled. He wished he still had real teeth.

Stan blinked his mind clear and watched Ford take the steps to the main cabin. He joined Ford on deck not to long after, choosing to throw on his red and gold leaf Hawaiian shirt under his trench coat as an excuse for dawdling. It was happening again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour and a half later they were walking along the boardwalk, a bit reminiscent of the one in Glass Shard Beach, although the chill November air and soft snow meant everything was closed for the season. They’d eaten at a tiny little diner about a seven-minute taxi ride from the docks. The interior had been done up in brick and arches and looked like and old subway tunnel system. They served soul food, and Stan felt his mouth water at the broasted chicken while Ford hummed with delight at baked ziti. Greasy though his meal was, Stan licked at every morsel. They had shared a fudge lava cake for desert. No alcohol this time; they’d learned their lesson.

Ford had suggested they walk back to the docks, ‘to work-off their dinner’ as the saying goes, but Stan could sense Ford was trying to ease back into walking. They were both still sore from overexerting themselves; part of the reason they’d indulged the night before, to numb the pain. Ford had developed a multicolored bruise on his abdomen, but the swelling in his hand had gone down enough that he could use it, albeit still weak. Stan hesitated only a few moments before interlacing his fingers with Ford’s, protecting it, _keeping it._

_Damnit!_ It was starting again. He was losing control of his thoughts; impulses creeping in to take over his mind and his new mental state not being one that complied with ignoring those impulses. Not that he ever had it easy denying his impulses, but when he had been just half of who he is, it had been somewhat easier. There had also been consequences then; not so much in the Nightmare Realm. 

They walked hand in hand, slowly, taking their time and easing their muscles back into working normally. Stan supporting his brother only occasionally on the way back, prompting them to take it slower, take in the sights, and just _be_ for a bit. It seemed to do them both good. They laughed and pointed at things, snapping pictures, and purchasing some souvenirs for the kids; a book on Nordic culture for Dipper (Ford had decided to add his own notes before sending it off), and a stuffed Puffin for Mabel (Stan thought the blue bow tied around its neck added to its appeal).

When they reached the boardwalk, it had started to snow. Soft, tiny flakes floating down and catching the light from the streetlights and the setting sun. The sky was sparkling. Ford had let go of his hand and before he had even fully turned to see why, Ford had hurled some snow that had collected on the dock railing at his face. It wasn’t much, the fresh stuff had only just started to fall and anything older having frozen solid and made for dangerous horseplay. It was still enough for Stan to reach out and snag Ford by his hood and yank him into a noogie. Not a hard one, just a hard ruffling of his hair and trapping Ford’s head under his arm. “Ow, hey! Stan, let go!”

Stan ran his fingers through Ford’s hair and over his scalp a few more times before letting go, chuckling through a playful sneer. Ford rubbed his head softly, mouth twisted between a frown and a smirk. Ford lightly pushed at his shoulder before taking his hand again.

Stan missed this. He’d missed his brother, of course, but these simple little things, these happy moments where nothing was wrong, nothing was worrying them, he’d missed these the most. Just sharing time, sharing space. They were both here, both happy, healthy, and doing what they always dreamed. Stan felt the need to hug his brother once again, to feel Ford’s body pressed against his, feel the pulse under his fingers and just know that Ford was _there_. But he resisted, mind churning at the very idea that he would ignore an impulse again.

They stopped in front of a closed skeet ball game, teasing each other about playing it for hours and competing for the high score. Stan had gifted a red frog (he thought) with a black bowtie and grey shorts to Ford that had sat at the food of the top bunk for a few years (until it got pushed off by Ford’s ginormous pile of books, then it sat on the floor as a guard for Fort Stan).

Ford just laughed at remembering the hideous thing, reveling that it had given him nightmares and that was why he kicked the damn thing off. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, I would’a won you something else!” Stan gasped though laughter. Ford smiled sadly, “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were so excited the day you brought it home.”

Stan just punched Ford’s arm, playfully, and leaned against the railing, back to the water and facing his brother. Ford mimicked him, arms crossed over the rail, to watch the waves crash against the frozen beach. The snow had picked up some and fat snowflake clusters tangled in Ford’s hair, making him look mystical…otherworldly.    

He loved his brother’s face. He was acutely cognizant that they, as twins, had similar facial features. But they were fraternal twins, not identical, and Stanford just… _wore it better_. Stan played it like he was the better-looking twin, but he knew it was just show; Ford could look marvelous without even trying. It really hadn’t helped that Ford could kill the ‘sexy librarian’ look with his sweater vests and open collar button-downs. His brother always assumed that he was stigmatized by his abnormality in high school. Stan was reluctant to tell him that the opposite was true. Ford was a magnet for people; he was just too oblivious when people flirted with him that he’d never noticed. His obsession with Cathy Crenshaw had acted against him, making him blind to all other offers; _including mine._

Stan was willing to admit that he had flirted with his brother, at first inadvertently as he was a natural flirt and did it without thinking, but then he’d done it with intention. Ford looked _good._ Even when he was covered in sweat and sand from the beach and sunburnt in mismatched splotches. Even when sleep deprived and had avoided showering for days. Even when he had drunk way too much coffee and was bleeding from his right eye. Even when he had been filled with rage and fear, and helpless and even when the electricity had made him lose control of his bowels ( ~~Stan~~ Bill had taken care of that though).

Ford’s face was bright, reflecting the last of the sun’s rays. Being outdoors had done wonders for his complexion. His face was full of color, his cheeks soft, and his chin only slightly dark with hair beneath the skin. Stan wanted to bite him. Bite that smooth and baby soft spot beside his eye. He wanted to pinch Fords ears, to tug on the lobes and stretch them out. He ~~wanted~~ needed to leave bite marks all along Ford’s face and body. To grab at Ford’s hips and tear into his abdomen; Stan was certain he could extend his jaw far enough to get it in one bite. He needed to rip off Sixer’s extra fingers and string them around his neck to wear as a keepsake. He wanted to rip IQ’s head off and just nuzzle at his cute brother’s face.

Stan could feel the wood fracturing under his hand with how tight he had been gripping the railing. His mind baulked and he tried desperately to not choke on a rush of bile. He failed. He leaned far over and away from Ford while he coughed up stomach acid and a bit of dinner. _NO!_

Ford was at his side in an instant, hand rubbing his back and trying to shush Stan’s pained groans, saying “I told you to eat something light. Grease increases the production of stomach acid and without the proper amount of…” Stan stopped listening. He knew that. Just like he knew that the chicken hadn’t done this to him. _No, it was your own fucked up head that made you up-chuck._ He should be lucky it was just acid reflux and not his whole dinner. That would be embarrassing; stupid American tourist blows chunks off Reykjavik boardwalk, yeah that would go well.

His throat burned and he felt himself wheezing when he tried to catch his breath. He’d inhaled some. Though the pain was distracting him from the…thoughts he’d had. It seared, but he’d take it over the alternative. He was _done_ with that! No more violent thoughts. No more freakish clinginess. No more biting fantasies. It didn’t matter if it was the brain’s way of dealing with over affection (human brains were fucked up and inefficient at storing and processing data anyway).

Ford rubbed at his back again, frowning, and taking Stan by the hand again. “Let’s head back, it’s late. And we can get these presents wrapped and in the mail tomorrow afternoon.” Ford readjusted the backpack that contained the niblings’ presents. Stan just followed, grumbling about being old to keep his brain occupied.

It wasn’t far from the boardwalk to the fishing dock, maybe twenty minutes’ walk at a brisk pace, thirty-five at their pace. They made it just as the last rays of sunlight melted away below the horizon.

Stan pulled out a bottle of water to ease the pain in his throat as Ford unpacked, placing the book upstairs to add to later. He entered the galley as Stan started convulsing, coughing and shaking to pull in a breath. Ford just smacked Stan on the back several times as Stan leaned over the sink.

“You really need to start thinking about your health. I’ve seen you eat, Stan. No amount of exercise on a boat is going to magically make up for a lifetime of poor eating habits.” Stan just groused. He knew he wasn’t ‘healthy’ by any doctor’s standards, but he was far healthier than he had been in years, both physically and mentally. Well sorta. So what if he indulged in fried foods when they made port. And ate brown meat…and…fine.

Stan felt another rise of bile, but kept it down with a groan.

“Alight, Sixer, but I’m gonna make you a deal. I start eating healthy and stop eating that ‘disgusting brown meat’ if _you,_ ” he jabbed at Ford’s chest with a finger, “start being more careful when we go out. That side of yours is still bruised and you still can’t grip anything with your hand.”

Ford looked annoyed and weary. But after a moment, he sighed and nodded. “Fine.” Stan grinned.  

Stan reached out, palm open and fingers splayed to shake Ford’s hand. The universal gesture for making a deal. His hand wreathed in blue flames.

His grin dropped from his face, replaced with horror as he pulled his hand away and shook it rapidly, putting the fire seal out. He turned to Ford, trepidation marring his face, his eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, a nervous laugh escaping his throat.

Ford looked shell shocked.

Fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the end of Chapter 1 in my first draft. I think I may need some help.


	8. Return to Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan outs himself. Ford does not take the news well and neither do Dipper and Mabel.

Fog. Blurs of color. Adrenaline. His heart hammering in his ears. Breath coming out in short, sharp gasps. His face hurt. His throat hurt. He could feel…something…organic under his nails. His hands were scrabbling for purchase. What was happening? He could feel something wet on his face. He could feel things, but his mind was too foggy. He knew he was on the floor. He couldn’t hear anything but his blood pumping, couldn’t see anything but blurs…did he lose is glasses? He felt something hit his gut, and he used the momentum as leverage to try and scramble away. Strong hands held him fast. Six fingered hands with sharp nails digging into his wrist, coming back to clutch at his throat. His mind reeled and his memory caught back up to itself.

He’d messed up. Stanford was going to kill him.

He was still having trouble seeing without his glasses. He blinked and squinted and tried to will away the fogginess that he hoped was caused by getting punched and not due to his cataracts. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, his eyes clearing in time to see a six-fingered fist aim straight for his face. He deflected it, caught the wrist in his right hand as Ford’s uninjured hand closed tighter around his throat. He was starting to see spots.

Stan gripped the wrist in his hand, placing his nail at the pressure point before letting go and wedging some fingers between Ford’s hand and his neck. Stan’s free hand braced against the lower cabinets behind him. He pried Sixer’s hand away far enough to suck in a much-needed gulp of air before his face was pressed down into the floor.

“Stan…ford…st…stop!”

“You. Were. GONE!” Ford punctuated each word with a punch. “You were erased!” Stan grunted with a particularly hard blow to his floating ribs.  

“Is this some kind of sick game to you? Is that It?! Have you been playing as Stan this whole time?! To lure me back in?! You deranged lunatic!” Stan needed to get the upper hand, NOW!

Stan heaved off the floor with a burst of energy and rolled them over, straddling his brother’s thighs and trying to stop the wild arms swinging at his face. “Stanford, Stop. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

One stray fist met his nose and he felt the cartilage crumple. Blood spilled from his nostrils and dripped past his lips and chin and onto his shirt. He could see part of the bone sticking out of his nasal bridge if he crossed his eyes. He flinched, hands coming up to protect his face.

It was a bad move, and he knew it as soon as he felt Ford throw his arms at Stan’s torso and they both went over, Ford pinning him again. He saw a flash and a wave of cold trail over his face and heard Ford gasp. He blinked open his eyes and realized that the pain in his nose lessened, and when Ford’s face turned from shock and alarm to hatred and fury, he realized he had inadvertently healed himself.     

Stan watched as Ford gritted his teeth and lunged, throwing his weight on Stan and slamming his head into the floor again. “Give him back!” Stan gasped as his eyes went fuzzy with the blow to his head. “Ford, it’s me! I’m right here!” Stan could feel his body shaking. This was going to end soon, one way or another. He looped his leg around the back of Ford’s, trying for any kind of leverage. He needed to get Ford to stop. Something. Anything to knock his brother out of this rage. Something that only Stan would know.  

Ford had stopped punching and instead opting for grabbing at Stan’s lapels and shaking him furiously. Stan pushed himself up on his elbows to keep his head from hitting the floor again.      

“Don’t you remember, at prom, we danced together covered in punch. They took pictures, we made it into the year book.” He didn’t know _why_ his addled brain picked out that particular memory, but it was worth a try…maybe.

“You think I’d listen to you. You’ve been in my mind, nothing you say is going to work. I know your games Cipher! You’ve pulled this one before.” Ford spat.

He _had_ come to think of it. He had manipulated Ford’s memories a lot, especially of Stan. Ford’s feelings towards Stan confused him, they distracted Ford. He was jealous. _Okay, bad memory. How about something different. The swings? No, I fucked with that one too. Nothing about the Stan O’War then. Ma and Pops? Sherman? Anything?_ It was getting hard to focus.   

“Why won’t you fight back!?” Ford was getting frantic. Stan’s arms slipped and he fell to the floor again.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.” Stan’s head banged off the floor. “OW! Damnit Sixer, look into my eyes! It’s ME!”

Ford stopped shaking him. He had his fists clenched around the neck of Stan’s shirt and jacket and digging in the nails of his thumbs into Stan’s neck. He was panting. They both were; being sixty can do that to you. And it didn’t help that Ford was injured.

Ford tightened his grip and pulled Stan forwards so that their faces were mere centimeters apart. Breathing each other’s air. He grimaced, he knew his breath smelled awful, but Ford didn’t even flinch, staring into his eyes with so much intensity that it was making Stan’s eyes start to water. His head drooped and he touched his forehead lightly to Ford’s. He winced when a tangle of Ford’s thoughts stabbed into his brain.  

_ Nothing. No Yellow. It’s not Bill. But it IS! He tricked me. Can’t trust him. Stan’s…is Stan gone? Is he gone?! His eyes. They’re brown. It can’t be Bill. But then why…? Why? What is wrong? How can Stan do that? His pupils are round. He’s NOT possessed! Trust no one! Can’t keep him here. Have to leave. Too many innocent people!  _

Stan pulled back, head throbbing with the influx of Ford’s manic thoughts. That was new. He never used to be able to do that before. He used to have to make a deal with someone first. Was it because they had never broken their deal?

“Stanford, please…”

The last thing Stan saw was Ford arching back for another swing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he regained consciousness, he realized he was in the engine room. The triple lined lead frame around their nuclear engine blocking most of the thrum. He knew the bulkhead was bolted from the outside without bothering to tilt his head. Just like he didn’t need to feel the rope tied around his numb wrists to know it was there. His brother was nothing if not thorough.

Stan closed his eyes and pressed his head against the warm metal floor, willing himself not to hurl. He could feel the boat moving, listing slightly with the waves. The running engine was proof enough that they were no longer at port.

Despite his current predicament, Stan was proud of his brother for thinking of others first. For distancing any potential danger from wreaking havoc on unsuspecting people. Feelings of pride melted into anxiety as he realized that it also meant that his brother believed that he was Bill. Which hurt, yes, but warranted. He had done everything he could to drive Sixer insane; he had often taken on the form of Stan to fuck with him. Manipulate Sixer’s feelings and memories to think of Stan as a burden, as cold and heartless. He had never really succeeded, but it was worth it to him at the time to try.

The pressure in his bladder told him that it had been at least four hours since he had been thrown in his improvised jail cell. At top speed, that put them about 60 miles out, still within Icelandic jurisdiction, but well outside of heavy traffic. Ford would be coming to check on him soon. He hoped.

What was he going to say? The truth? He doubted that his brother would believe that, given their history. It was the epidemy of a Catch-22; Stan couldn’t use any memories Ford had because he had been inside his brother’s mind, and he couldn’t use anything he hadn’t see because then Ford wouldn’t have known about it. Even if he had tried, Ford would just assume that he was lying; he had done it before, convinced Ford that Stan had done something he really hadn’t. Like put Nair in their father’s shaving cream (he’d _thought_ about it, but Pops was fucking scary), or jump Thistle Downe in an alley, (he’d wrecked the guy’s car, not his face). Although, half of the shit he’d convinced Ford of, were things he’d likely do. Best case scenario, Ford takes care of him thinking that his brother could get his body back. Given enough time, he might be able to convince Ford that he wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure of that himself.

He heard muffled footsteps and the sound of the bulk head being unlocked. When the heavy door swung open, Stan felt his insides twist. Ford looked…defeated. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was windswept and there was blood smeared across his chin, likely Stan’s own. The worst was his eyes. Ford looked like the world had upended and all his dreams had shattered like splinters of glass. They had, hadn’t they? Stan had broken them, with one wrong move. Again. One mistake, and it was all over.

Stan couldn’t bare to look. It didn’t matter what happened now. There was nothing he could do, and at that moment, there was nothing he wanted to do. It was over. Stan just wished he could have savored it a bit more.

With his eyes closed, Stan didn’t notice what Ford had in his hands until he approached Stan’s side and began undoing the belt at his waist. Not exactly what he expected, and certainly not something that they should be doing now…or really ever, ya’know, _brothers_!      

“Sixer, what the HELL are you doing!” Ford had gotten his pants down to his thighs and was now yanking at the elastic of his boxers.  

“Inserting a catheter.” His words were clipped, and efficient, like he didn’t want to open his mouth, afraid Stan might crawl inside. That had been a nightmare Bill was proud of. Too bad it worked too well.

“The Hell you are. What happens when I need to shit, huh?” Catheter, fine, hurts, but fine. Then what? Apparently, Ford hadn’t thought of that either, as he paused, eyes filled with confusion, one hand pulling down Stan’s boxers and the other wrapped around Stan’s flaccid penis. Stan looked into Ford’s face a moment, but Ford was somewhere else. He looked thoughtful and irritated, then screwed up his face and yanked Stan’s pants back up before hauling Stan to his feet. The catheter was left on the floor.

The next few minutes were spent not thinking about his brother holding his cock while he pissed because Ford would not untie his hands. He also was not thinking about what they would do when he inevitably had to…

The greasy chicken really had not been a great idea. If there was a merciful God, he would spare Stan from his usual…messy bowel movements after greasy foods.

Once finished and roughly tucked back in by his brother, Stan waited, pinned to the wall by a knee while Ford washed his hands. Stan was starting to get the feeling back in his hands. He could probably untie himself, but…where was he gonna go?

Ford pulled him out and practically threw him into the galley booth before kneeling and tying his feet together. He stood and turned abruptly, nearly smacking Stan in the face. He stormed over to the counter and picked up a glass of grey-green sludge. It smelled of grass and that shitty powdered protein. Ford thrust it into Stan face.  

“Drink” Stan’s nose wrinkled but he remained silent and took a sip when Ford tilted the glass. Silent was not possible after tasting it though. He coughed, swallowing down an urge to spit it back out.

“Oh God, that’s awful.” Stan grimaced, turning his head away when Ford tried to get him to drink again. 

“It isn’t supposed to taste good, but what would _you_ know about taste, anyway.” Ford grabbed at Stan’s chin to hold him still and pressed the glass to his lips.  

“I’ve eaten for the past sixty years, Ford. Don’t you recognize me?” Of course, Ford recognized him. He meant to ask if Ford recognized that it _was_ him still. But he was choking down another gulp of the slurry meant to pass as food.  

“Don’t play me, Cipher. I am in no mood.” Stanford was using _that_ tone, the one that said, ‘I will haunt your nightmares if you don’t do as I say.’ Ford sounded deadly. Stan suppressed a shiver.

Stan, reluctantly, finished the glass and thankfully held back the urge to barf again. It had to have been a mix of slightly off vegetables, coconut paste and that whey protein powder that Ford snuck into his coffee every now and again. The texture was just short of gelatinous…and slimy and…far too bitter for what was supposed to be in it. He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed it before.     

“You…drugged…me.” His speech was slurred, and his vision likely would not have been helped by having his glasses back.

“Yes.” Ford sounded so…matter-of-fact about the whole thing. On the one hand, Stan couldn’t blame him, on the other…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

…On the other his brother had fucking drugged him. Shifting his legs reveled that Ford had also inserted the catheter. He was thankful for at least the mercy of being out cold for it. He was back on the engine room floor, wrists still tied behind his back, feet still tied at the ankles. Now with no clue as to how long he’d been out for. He sighed. So, this was how it was gonna be, huh?

When he got bored feeling sorry for himself, he studied the experiments that had been left in the engine room. Jars and tubes of collected specimens, a dried fish with a scorpion’s tail that Stan had caught just off Greenland, and several powders whose properties Stan ignored that he knew.

When he got bored of his brother’s experiments, he moved on to other things. Replaying episodes of Ducktective, refining strategies for chess and Go, and trying to mentally master the fucking coin trick he’d been practicing since the ‘80’s. He had finally resorted to humming various songs to himself to keep his mind occupied. He had melded together his number upon entering this dimension for the first time with the song Mabel wrote for him to sing after losing the bet. It came out kinda mismatched;

I am Bill, and I was wrong, I’m sing the Bill’s wrong song.

I shouldn’t have tried to save you, from the delusions society gave you.

And now that I’m here, tonight, it’s gonna get weird.

Look at these fingers, power that lingers,

Memories invading, sanity fading.

Ooooooooooooh, yeah

Look at this mindscape, fighting a reshape!

Brother who hates me, gonna kill me maybe.

Look at this loser, nothin’ but a bruiser!

 Now that everything I’ve known has disappeared, it’s gonna get weird.

I’m Stan and I was wrong, is this were we say, ‘so long’?

And sad. Mismatched and sad. Maybe he should try and sleep. He was dreading Ford’s next visit. For multiple reasons. Chief of which he could feel gurgling in his lower abdomen. Greasy foods were defiantly out from now on.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*Meanwhile, 4000 miles away~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dipper had texted his Great Uncle Ford first thing in the morning after being told he and Mabel had to finish their holiday homework before Thanksgiving. Not that he needed the help (Mabel did, which was why he insisted they work together), but he hadn’t heard from his Grunkles in a while. Mabel was usually the one sending selfies, and then only with Grunkle Stan. She didn’t love her Grunkle Ford any less, but it was easier to talk to Stan.

What he didn’t expect was Great Uncle Ford to start asking him what he knew of Grunkle Stan’s history and if he knew anything about dissociative personality disorder in response to severe psychological trauma.

Nothing about it sounded promising.

**What brought this on? What’s wrong?**

_Nothing…not really. Nothing at the moment. Just, Stan has been showing some rather questionable knowledge that is…outside of his repertoire. I had thought that it was just we simply had spent too much time apart. I had hoped that you or Mable would have a better insight to who Stan is now_.

**What kind of knowledge? I mean, Grunkle Stan is a con man. He knows more than people thinks he does. Like I started writing in code and he could read it. I got in trouble for that one.**

_ He can read ancient Gaelic. He speaks Spanish. And he knows much more about radio receivers than I thought.  _

That was something. Dipper and Mabel both knew that Stan spoke Spanish; he’d done it enough times in front of them to avoid swearing in English. Soos and Stan would also talk in Spanish if Soos was feeling particularly distraught about something. Dipper thought it was sweet; he’d caught Soos giving Stan a hug after eavesdropping on one conversation between them. It was not long after Soos’s birthday, so he suspected it had something to do with fathers.

But radio antennas? Dipper wasn’t sure about that one. Stan had made no show of knowing much about technology beyond his TV set and the portal. But it wasn’t too far out of the realm of believability. Stan had a colorful history. So, what prompted Great Uncle Ford’s conclusion?

**Why do you think Stan has DID? What evidence do you have?**

_ To be completely honest, I don’t. I just have a have a gut feeling that Stan is acting strangely. _

**Strange how? Stan always acts kinda weird.**

**Like this one time I caught him in the bathroom with a cracker and he was making…**

But Dipper wasn’t able to finish telling Ford about seeing Stan feeding his naval crackers. He was interrupted by his uncle’s quick reply. It made Dipper feel, uneasy.

_ I mean strange for Stan. He’s not as talkative as he used to be. I have gotten used to tuning him out, but I haven’t had the need to. Even now, he is sitting in the galley doing whatever it is he does. He’s not bugging me, he’s not asking questions, he’s not nagging me to go into town. _

There was a lull in the rapid-fire texts. Dipper was weirdly grateful; his hand was starting to feel weird with his phone constantly buzzing. His homework was laid out unfinished on the coffee table. Mabel herself was fumbling through her own homework and not noticing Waddles tugging on her nightgown. It was way too early to be doing homework, but their parents had insisted. His phone buzzed again. He felt that Stan wasn’t the only one acting strange.     

 _It’s almost like he’s a different person._ Dipper rolled his eyes. He loved his great uncle, but Ford was trying to be super mysterious over nothing. It sounded like Ford was coming down with a dose of Stan induced cabin fever. He and Mabel really needed to skype with them soon. And he was man enough to admit he missed Ford’s hugs. The man smelled like old books and musty dirt.   

**Is that why you asked about DID?**

_ Yes. It’s a leap, I know, but Stan is as likely a candidate for trauma induced psychological disorders as any.  _

But Dipper didn’t understand why Ford was jumping to multiple personality disorders. They all were affected by the events of the past summer. Ford himself had been traumatized by Bill for years, long before the rest of them had ever set foot in Gravity Falls.   

He felt Mabel materialize at his side, shoving a paper in his face. It took him a moment to realize it was her homework. It was messy and done in multicolored gel pens. The teachers had banned her from turning in her homework in crayon. It was a small victory when Dipper came home with a pack of gel pens the next afternoon. His ribs still twanged in phantom pain from the bone crushing hug she had given him.

“Ah, Mabel, what am I looking at?” His train of thought still on his grunkles.

“Dipper, see, see this, is it right?” She was pointing at the problem at the top of the page. It was written in pastel yellow and Dipper had to squint to read it clearly. He sent out a quiet apology to their chemistry teacher. The more he looked at it, the more it looked correct. He leaned over the table to grab his own homework to check, previous conversation put on the mental backburner.

“Hey, you got it right! Good job Mabel.” He gave his sister a thumbs-up. She was really starting to get it.

“Wha, really? Whoo! I was afraid I’d have to ask Dad with you hogging Grunkle Ford. But Grunkle Stan helped me.” Dipper was taken aback.

“What? Stan helped you? But, Stan doesn’t know about chemistry. I had to tell him not to mix bleach and ammonia to get the zombie goop off the floors. Remember?” Dipper felt a chill run down his spine. Maybe Ford was on to something. His phone buzzed again when Mable went back to her homework.    

 _Dipper. Can I ask you a personal question? It might make you uncomfortable, but I need to know the answer._ That was a sudden turn. Dipper frowned. What on Earth could Ford ask that would make him uncomfortable?

**Ok**

_Mabel said that Bill “turned you into a sock puppet”, can you elaborate on this experience?_ Oh boy. He promised not to keep secrets from Ford anymore, but this one was embarrassing. His greatest failure, aside from not trusting Mabel with the information that could have saved her. But if anyone would understand, Ford would. He just hoped that his uncle wasn’t disappointed in him. 

**I kinda made a deal with Bill. We found Fiddleford’s laptop in the bunker with the shapeshifter and we couldn’t unlock it. Mabel was going to help me figure out the password, but she got distracted by her stupid crush and the sock puppet thing. Bill asked for a puppet in exchange for helping me. Then he possessed my body.** Dipper still had nightmares about that. 

_I don’t blame you, Dipper. I was tricked too. I would be a hypocrite to think less of you. What did you experience while possessed?_ Dipper smiled a bit. He knew he shouldn’t have been worried, but knowing Ford wasn’t mad at him helped.

**I was kind like a ghost. I could see and hear everything around me, but I couldn’t interact with anyone unless I had a vessel to talk through. I got through to Mabel by using a sock-puppet she made to look like me.**

_Did anyone notice? That you weren’t acting like yourself?_ That was a hard one. He wasn’t really paying attention to much else besides trying to stop Bill from destroying the journal. It was hard to say for sure if anyone noticed. But he did remember feeling terrible that Bill had flirted with Wendy. They were just starting to get over the awkwardness of his confession.

**I think Wendy might have. Bill called her “toots”, but he ran off with Mabel to get the journal not long after. I didn’t see if she reacted. What’s all this about? What does this have to do with personality disorders?**

This line of questioning was really scaring him. Any talk about Bill was uncomfortable. But Ford was just concerned about his brother. He was jumping to conclusions. All he could think about for thirty years was Bill, it was normal for him to think Bill was behind it. He was just having a panic attack. Maybe he should text Stan to go give Ford a hug. But if Ford was concerned that Stan was…not himself, would he accept comfort? What did Ford think about Stan? Did he…? No, he couldn’t; Ford was just having a moment. He wasn’t suggesting that…

Dipper felt his pulse beat staccato in his veins. His throat threatened to close and he felt sweat begin to drip down his face. His hands shook upon sending his next text.   

**Do you think Stan might be possessed?**

_I don’t know what I think yet. That’s why I’m trying to collect information. It seems that your experience was slightly different than mine. When Bill possessed me, I was unconscious, or I receded to the mindscape. You didn’t. You stayed in the world like an astral projection. Bill’s powers were nearly at their peak then._ Dipper gulped. No, this was not happening. It was just another nightmare. He was going to wake up to Mabel jumping on his bed any second.

 **Grunkle Ford, you’re scaring me. Are you ok? Is Stan?** He held his breath.

 _I don’t know._ Nope. Nope. Ford not knowing what to do was not something he wanted to deal with. Nope! Ford knew everything! Ford was…he was…

 **But Bill is gone. You erased him yourself. Didn’t you?** Didn’t he?!

_ Dipper.  _

Dipper could feel the seconds tick by like hours. He jumped when is phone finally buzzed again.

 _I’m scared too._ Oh God! No. Nonononono. Nope. No! They won! Bill was gone! They….

 _I was hoping that this might just be a case of underestimating Stanley’s intelligence. I’ve done it before. Or at worse, a case of DID from the trauma of everything. But._ Ford sent the message unfinished.

 **But WHAT?!** Dipper was really trying not to panic now.

 _Toffie peanuts and jellybeans._ What? Was that code? Was Dipper supposed to know what that meant? Was Ford being watched?

**What?**

_ Toffie peanuts used to be Stanley’s favorite snack when we were younger. He had some the other day and he said he bought them from a local bakery. But I was sure they stopped making them almost a decade ago. I called the store today and they don’t sell them. I checked online for anything suggesting a limited production run and found nothing. It’s like they came out of nowhere.  _

Why was that relevant? Why did it matter? What was Ford doing? Dipper was not handling this well.  

**You said jellybeans. What do you mean?**

_I found a bag of jellybeans in the cupboard the next morning. There weren’t there the night before._ Dipper was losing his patience. This was getting out of hand.

**Grunkle Ford, what are you not telling me?**

_Stan_ Stan WHAT?! Finish your statement dude!

 _Nevermind. It’s nothing._ Dipper knew it wasn’t nothing. Ford wouldn’t ask him about Bill and just dismiss it. He was being watched. That had to be it. He couldn’t talk about it because someone was spying on him.

 _We’re going out tonight so I’ll keep an eye on him. I don’t want to scare you. But next to myself, you’re the only one I know who has had direct contact with Bill. I want to rule out the worst-case scenario first._ Or not? Ok, Ford was hiding something. Something big. But he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Dipper took a calming breath. Ford was just panicking over something silly. It was ok. It was ok. It was… _not_ ok, but he could handle this. He had to.   

**Just keep me in the loop, ok?**

_ Ok. Can I ask you another favor? _

**What?**

_I know we shouldn’t keep anything from her. And I plan to inform her when I know for sure what we are dealing with, but please, don’t tell your sister yet. I don’t want to scare her over nothing._ And it was ok to scare him over something? Fine. If Ford wanted to play that game, he could too. 

**You have until tomorrow. Then I’m telling her everything you told me.** He meant it too. No more secrets. Besides, she was still texting Stan. She looked unsettled. You bet he was going to tell her everything.  

_ I understand.    _

He didn’t hear from Ford for a few hours. It was painstaking trying to act normal. He helped Mabel finish her homework and they played with Waddles for a bit (the family cat had not been impressed with the new introduction to the family) before his anxiety got the better of him. He’d started chewing on his pajama shirt when Mabel finally distracted him with a teen girl movie that was playing on TV. That lead into a Ghost Harassers marathon and then something about sharks on the animal channel before they stopped for lunch.

He had almost forgotten his conversation with his uncle when his phone buzzed, and buzzed, and buzzed.

He answered while swallowing a bite of sandwich. “Hello, Dipper here.”

“Dipper, I haven’t much time. Listen, remember what I talked to you about earlier? You asked me what I wasn’t telling you?”

Dipper could hear static, and the rush of wind like Ford was calling from outside or on the Stan O’War while it was moving. He could barely hear his uncle. But it was enough to hear the fear in Ford’s voice.

“Great Uncle Ford? I can barely hear you? What’s wrong? Are you guys ok?” He stood up from his place at the dining room table, lunch forgotten. Mabel herself perking up when she heard Dipper mention their uncle’s name. The corners of her eyes wrinkling in concern.

“Dipper, what’s wrong?” her voice wavered. Dipper pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the speaker button.

They heard static and garbled words as the call tried to reconnect. “Grunkle Ford, hello? Can you hear us?” Mabel’s voice was even, but he could see the concern dripping off her. Dipper walked closer and put their heads together. Mabel leaned over her plate to hear the speaker better. It cracked and Ford’s voice rang out in the quiet dining room, echoing off the tile.

“…And his eyes turned yellow! He’s being possessed by Bill! Stan isn’t in there anymore!”

Dipper’s blood turned to ice.

“He tried to make a deal with me. There was blue fire! He’s been manipulating me this whole time!”

The phone buzzed, signaling the call being disconnected.

No!

Dipper pulled the phone close to him and sent a text to Ford. Mabel stood up from her chair and leaned over his shoulder, taking the phone from him after he sent the text and read through the conversation thread.   

“WHAT?! Dipper, please! Please tell me this is all just you and Ford overreacting!” She handed the phone back to him. “Dipper please. Bill’s gone. He’s gone. And Stan is fine. I talked to him Dipper. He…he was…” Dipper watched his sister’s face crumble at the realization.

“I should’a known something was off. He was helping me with Chemistry! We called them just two weeks ago! He was wearing my goodbye sweater! How could he have been Bill this WHOLE TIME!? How could _we_ not notice?” Mabel was in tears, hands on her brother’s shoulders and shaking him as if _he_ had the answers. He was supposed, right?

His phone buzzed, signaling a received text. He glanced at it but it didn’t matter what it said. The worst had already come true. He pulled his sister into a hug, clutching at her nightgown like the world would take her from him if he didn’t. He felt Waddles nudge hesitantly at their legs and heard his Mom’s voice from the backyard. He pulled away from Mabel and gestured for her to be quiet and follow him.

They ran upstairs to their shared room and closed the door, Mabel holding it a crack for Waddles to follow them.

She rubbed tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown and slumped on the floor next to her bed. “What are we gonna do?” Like he knew. Dipper sat down next to his sister and held her close. “We just have to trust Ford on this. There’s nothing we can do from here.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder.    

They spent another few hours in silence. The sky outside their window turned dark as the clouds rolled in. White fluffy snowflakes drifted lazily passed the glass as the afternoon wore on and Dipper’s phone remained nauseatingly still. Under normal circumstances, they would be out playing in the snow right now, throwing snowballs, and building snowmen and snow forts. They would be cold and covered in melting snow, coming in for dinner and hot coco in under an hour. But instead, they sat huddled together for comfort like they were in a hospital waiting room, waiting on the doctor to tell them what they already knew was true. Their uncle was gone. Both of them might be by the end of this.

Dipper’s phone buzzed once and it was in his hand before it stopped.

Dipper didn’t understand the message. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like Bill at all.

“Dipper, come on.”

“Ford says he’s not fighting back. He just sat there. He has Bill restrained and locked in the engine room, but he’s not trying to get away.”

“Dipper, that doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t he? Ford knows it’s him now. Why try to trick him?”

His phone buzzed again, and Dipper sent off a short response. “Is he ok? Are they hurt? Dipper!”

“Ford’s fine. Bill wouldn’t fight him. Stan broke his nose but Bill fixed it. Ford is as safe as he can be. He tried force-feeding Stan’s body and Bill just…accepted it. I don’t get it. This isn’t his M.O. at all.”

Mabel was pulling at her hair now. He wanted to do the same, but his phone buzzed again.

“Just…just, please. Tell me where they’re going.”

Dipper looked up from his phone screen into his sister’s terrified face. He flipped the phone around so she could make out the text Ford had sent him.

**I’m taking us to the Bermuda Triangle** **.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave you guys a long chapter because I’m going on hiatus for a week or two to hash out storylines. I’m working simultaneously on Whole Again and the sequels: A Rickterlude, and Instinctive Aptitude Diminution. I’ve been getting distracted with the sequels’ storylines and I need some time to outline everything. Also, I'm not good at writing Dipper/Mable perspectives, so the second half of this one took waaaaaay longer than it should have.
> 
> Any comments are welcome.


	9. The Turmoil of Stanford Pines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford Pines was not handling the loss of his brother well. Bill's behavior confounds him, and he has guilt ridden dreams.

Stanford Pines stood in the belly of the Stan O’War, the ship of his dreams, facing the bathroom door, pistol drawn and prepared to shoot the man that would unavoidably come out of it.

After thirty-odd years, he thought that facing Bill would be habitual by now. There was nothing “normal” about this. He hurt. His eyes ached, his head pounded and his body creaked with every shift in weight. He was afraid to sleep. The feeling was so familiar he could have cried if he could spare the time.

He was stupid to think he would ever be free from this damned demon. This damned creature that took away everything he had worked so hard to achieve. His home, his research, his peace of mind, his sanity, his only real friend in life…and now, Bill had taken his brother.

Bill Cipher had sat and bided his time, impersonating Stan Pines long enough to worm his way into the family’s trust. Making Stanford believe that he had gotten his brother back. Making Stanford sit with the agony of dealing with what he’d done to Stanley, giving him hope that it would all be ok, that everything was forgiven and Stan was going to be ok. Making Stanford feel loved for the first time in so many years.

Only to tear it all down and burn it with that infernal blue fire.

There was nothing for it now. Stanford had to contain Bill at all costs. If Stanley could be saved, it would have to wait. It would have to wait.

He was so tired of waiting.   

“What’s taking so long? You forget how?”

He heard a muffled sigh from the other side of the door before the water pump activated. He re-adjusted his grip on the pistol. He really hoped beyond hope that Bill would cooperate. He wasn’t prepared to do this. Not while Bill looked like Stan. He would. He had to at some point. Most likely. But he knew it would break him. Killing Stan, even if Stan was already gone, would finally break the man hell bent on destroying Bill Cipher. He would die alongside whatever was left of his brother. He would never have the strength to make it back home.

He almost wished he never had meet Dipper and Mabel. It would make his inevitable last act less difficult. Because he would. Stanford, if nothing else, knew himself well enough to know he would. He was weak. His emotions, his insufferable nostalgia, made him weak and pathetic. His eyes stung with the need to cry. But he wouldn’t give Bill the satisfaction of seeing him like that.  

What he couldn’t understand was why Bill’s magic was so different. Possession by Bill was always the same; yellow sclera and elongated pupils with no visible iris. The possessed person would manifest themselves in the mindscape or fall unconscious. Or so he thought. Dipper’s account of his own possession was so different from what Ford himself experienced, that it boggled his mind. What was even stranger was that despite all previous allusions to the alternative, Bill’s ability to possess someone was not always obvious.

Stan’s eyes were brown. His sclera white. He was, for all outward appearance, Stanley Pines. The man the boy Stanford remembered from his youth had grown into. His mannerisms, his speech, his movements all spoke to a truth Stanford could not, would not, believe.

Because that was not Stan Pines. For all his extraordinary characteristics, (his uncanny strength being the most prominent) Stan was just an ordinary man. And ordinary men were not able to conjure flames from nothing. _Especially not blue flames to seal a deal_.

The sudden silence from the water’s end startled Stanford out of his thoughts. He chided himself for being easily distracted. He was exhausted. He needed sleep. But he couldn’t sleep yet. They were still too close to shore. Bill could still turn the boat around and harm innocent people. Stanford didn’t know the extent of Bill’s powers in this form. From what Stanford could remember, Bill had not been able to use magic when he possessed him. Bill had always been regulated to the limitations of the physical body he was in. The face that Bill could use magic now, any magic, meant that he had gained a new level of power since entering Stan’s mind. Stanford refused to think about what that might entail.     

The door clicked, and he braced himself, ready to pull the trigger if he had to. The door the bathroom opened, and there he stood. The monster in his brother’s skin. Bill looked shocked, eyes flicking between the gun and Stanford’s eyes. _Didn’t think I would do it, did you? Well, Fuck you!_

~~Stan~~ Bill’s eyes drooped, posture following. He looked so lost. So pitiful. The sigh that escaped his lips echoing off the walls and filled the room with regret, grief, and acceptance. ~~Stan~~   **Bill** stared at the floor.

There was a long silence. Bill didn’t move and Stanford made no motion to bind him. _What are you going to do, Cipher? What is your game plan?_ The silence was shredded with the sound of ~~Stan’s~~ **BILL’S** hushed voice.

“If you’re gonna do it, can I say goodbye to the kids first?” Bill had the gall to pretend to cry.  

Stanford swallowed down the heartwrenching sob that crawled in this throat. Bill had called his bluff even before Stanford himself knew it _was_ a bluff. That was going to be the most difficult part of this; Bill knew him inside and out. Bill knew him even better than he knew himself. Bill also probably knew where they were headed too. The only place Stanford could think of that might help contain Bill. The Bermuda Triangle.

There was evidence that the Bermuda Triangle may have anomalous properties similar to the weirdness magnetism surrounding Gravity Falls. If nothing else, it was a section of ocean that people stayed away from for fear of disappearing. It was the perfect place to keep Bill until he could find a way to break Bill’s hold on his brother. He wasn’t going to think about the possibility that Stan was…no, there was no time for that now. Bill was dangerous.

“Sixer, I know you’re not gonna believe me, but I’m not going to hurt you.” Bill sounded so much like Stan. So much it was almost too easy to answer. Because both Bill and Stan had hurt him, albeit differently.

“You have before.”

Stanford saw Bill flinch. Good. Bill should know he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He wasn’t going to let Stan’s face make him weak. He was going to keep the upper hand if it killed him.

And it just might. Because it was so hard to do this.    

Bill looked defeated. Stanford knew it could be a bluff, was most likely a bluff, but that look on Stan’s face made it hard to remain stoic. The fact that it was Stan’s face made everything hard. The fact that it was Stan’s body made Stanford question just how strong and selfless he really was.

Bill knelt, arms stiffly sliding behind his back; Stan’s shoulders were likely sore from being pulled out of proper alignment for so long. Stanford wanted to ignore it, let Bill be in pain, let him deal with every mortal inconvenience. But Stan’s quiet whimper won him over. Stanford mentally flayed himself when he marched over to the kneeling form, wrenched both arms in front of him and tied them together with the rope. If Bill wanted to escape, it would be easier for him to do so now. Not that it wasn’t easy before. Maybe it was just a show of dominance, who was in charge here. So why did Stanford feel _he_ was the powerless one?   

He refused to look at Bill wearing his brother’s face, knowing that Bill would be smug, knowing that Bill had taken a chunk out of Stanford’s armor.

He brought Bill up and again pushed him towards the engine room. It was the most secure place on their tiny ship. There was nowhere else to keep him. Not where Stanford could rest without worrying about looking over his shoulder expecting an attack. He’d done more than enough of that while dimension hopping. More than enough for multiple lifetimes. He thought he was done with that.

Bill didn’t fight. _WHY?!_ What was the point of keeping up the charade? Stanford knew that it was Bill. He could only conclude that Bill was trying to manipulate him, bring Stanford into a false sense of security before making a move. Bill was patient. It could take years. Stanford had to be vigilant. But he doubted his own strength with every passing moment.

Stanford walked Bill in Stan’s body to the makeshift cell and left him in the room. He didn’t throw him, didn’t kick his legs out from under him to give Stanford time to get to the door incase Bill made a run for it. He’d even holstered his pistol, instead choosing to direct Bill with a hand on Stan’s shoulder and one on his waist. And Bill, Bill just stood there. Just walked to the place Stanford set him and stood there as Stanford walked backwards out of the room before letting the bulkhead fall shut. He spun the wheel lock and felt his legs nearly give out.

Why was this so hard? Why was Bill making this so hard?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  

Dark, dank, and musty. The portal loomed overhead, standing resolute and imposing over him. It was off. It was _off_! Bill Cipher had no hold on this world save for him. Given enough time, Stanford was sure he could sever that hold too, in any way possible. He was going to stop this. Stop him.

He had called Stanley for help. Stanley was an unknown. Bill had only the first years of Stanley’s life to pull from, to play with in Stanford’s mind. The Stanley of now was a wild card. An unstable variable that would rock the whole plan Bill had painstakingly set into motion. Because Stanford didn’t know Stanley anymore. He’s not sure even if his memories of Stanley and his family are even accurate or of his making.

Bill had altered things. Bill had messed with his mind. Stanford was sure of that now. As little as he thought of Stanley, he knew, somehow, that Stan was not the person he remembered. Stan was impulsive, and boorish, but he…he wasn’t evil. He didn’t do things maliciously. He had memories of scars inflicted by Stan that he could never find. He couldn’t trust his own memories anymore. And there wasn’t time left to suss out what was real. He had chosen to trust Stanley.       

Stanford was sure of his decision. Stanley was the only one left. The only one he could trust. And it didn’t hurt that he wanted to see him. Stanford, in the back of his mind, knew he would likely only ever break the hold Bill had on him by removing the core of the problem.

Himself.

Even at his worst, even under the abuse by his hometown bullies or even his father, he had never considered killing himself. Cutting off his extra fingers, sure, but never so low as to want to stop existing.

But that was what Bill had driven him to. He didn’t want to die, certainly not, but if nothing proved to be a wedge between Bill and himself, he might not have the luxury to choose. If he couldn’t break Bill’s hold over him, then he wasn’t safe around others. At any moment, Bill could take him over, could hurt someone through him. He wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let Bill hurt anyone. It would be his last act, his last accomplishment. He hoped his brother understood.

He wanted to see his brother at least once. Even if they didn’t make up and Stanford still detested his presence. Even if there was no rekindling of affection, no warm embrace that he so desperately wanted, and the only words they exchanged were filled with bile and venom.

Because that’s what had happened. He was scared, so sure that Bill would take his brother if Stan lingered any longer. So sure that uttering Bill’s name would call the daemon forth and allow him to possess Stan the same way he had been, that he had not fully explained the severity of the situation. Had not told Stan about the danger they both faced. He just threw his journal at Stan and begged him to leave. Demanded Stan leave. He was resigned. The world would be safe. Even if it meant he would never see his brother again.  

But Stan didn’t. He didn’t leave. Instead his eyes filled with hate and grief. Instead Stan threw his own failures at Stanford, like he expected his brother to take responsibility for them. Like Stan hadn’t made those decisions himself. Feeling guilty did nothing for the problem (and a small part of Stanford did feel a twinge of guilt). They fought. Physically fought over the last piece of Stanford’s long years of work. Emotionally fought over the strained remains of their happy youth.

The acrid smell of burning flesh, the blossom of pain in his nose. The feeling of weightlessness as Stan pushed him into the glowing hole that lead to hell. The lead to _him!_ Stan’s eyes glowing sickly yellow and erupting into manic laughter. Burning his journal with a quick eruption of blue flames.

No!

Bill had gotten to him! Stanford was too late. He has miscalculated. His brother was lost.

“Stanley, fight it!” His call fell on deaf ears. Stan was gone.  

“Stanley, please!” He never got to say goodbye.

“Do something!” He never got to tell Stan he was sorry.

“Stanley!” Because he was. No matter how irksome Stan could be, Stanford was sorry they had drifted. He was sorry he had lost his best friend. He was sorry that they had…had…

“Oh we’ll see each other again, Sixer. We’ll meet again!”

Manic laughter and glowing eyes were the only thing left.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*          

Stanford awoke in the darkness of the bedroom on the Stan O’War II. He was cold, sweat dripping down his neck and chest and beading on his forehead.

He had often dreamed about the day his life changed forever. But never had he experienced it quite like that. The mind was a strange thing; it could hide things from the conscious person, then turn around and paint those same hidden thoughts in twirling and contorting metaphors in attempts to make sense of them.

Stanford pressed his hands to his face, willing the rolling guilt to ease. Because he did feel it. Shame over being so angry at Stanley for so long. Remorse at not reaching out to the man sooner. He had become so consumed with being angry, he didn’t know how to function without it. He had let his anger, his exasperation, his incredulity that Stan would stoop so low as to ruin any chance Stanford had of making something of himself, color his feelings. Distort his memories. He had fooled himself into thinking he hated his brother. Fooled himself into thinking that Stan deserved everything he got in exchange for ruining his attempted at a future without him. Stanford had wanted some distance. Some room to grow as an individual. Was that so much to ask!?

Stanford loved his brother. Had never imagined a future without Stan by his side. It petrified him. Made his heart beat out of rhythm and made his blood run cold. He couldn’t imagine a world, a life without Stanley. Why? Why couldn’t he? Why was it that his identity relied on Stan to exist? Was he not his own person? Was he not a disparate unit from the moniker ‘Pines Brothers’? It was hard for them both, but they needed to grow apart. It was necessary. It was healthy.

And so, he made himself hold onto his anger. Hold onto the idea that his brother was a burden, a wasted space, holding him back from accomplishing what he was meant to do. Bill’s twisting of his memories had not helped matters. Stanford had hated the man, and only after realizing that he would likely never see him again, had he realized the truth.

He was prepared to forgive his brother that night; had they only been level headed enough to talk.

He was prepared to let all that anger go, to let all thoughts of his brother as an obligation, as a drain, go. He wanted his best friend back. He had been ready to heal.    

Stanford felt that overwhelming guilt now. Knowing his brother was gone, likely well and truly gone, made everything so much worse.

He didn’t get to say goodbye.

Neither one had had the strength to say it before Stanford had wiped his brother from the world.

He missed Stan so much.

Stanford found himself putting on Stan’s set of pink bunny slippers and walking out the bedroom door before his conscious mind thought to let him in on where his body was going.

God, he was weak.        

His forehead pressed into the cool metal of the cell door. That monster lied on the other side. The monster that had taken his sanity, years off his life and finally his brother, was just a few steps away.

The monster he had once called a friend. The monster he had once thought he loved.

The monster that looked so much like the man he missed so much right now.

He was pathetically weak, and he mentally berated himself over and over. Against all reason, Stanford unlocked the heavy steel door and entered the engine room.

Bill had been curled up on his side on the floor, facing away from the door. He startled awake upon Stanford’s entry, rolling over to blink rapidly at the nocturnal intrusion. 

Stanford pressed his back against the bulkhead. They stared each other down for a few moments; unsure of what this was, or where it was supposed to go.

“Have a bad dream?” Bill sounded like Stan, so comforting, so warm.

Bill sat up, legs spread and bent at the knees.

Stanford felt like he was walking through water. The six steps it took to reach ~~Stan~~ Bill took ages. Hours. But it was still far too soon when Stanford knelt between ~~Stan’s~~ ~~Bill’s~~ his legs. He didn’t know why he was even here. There was no need for this. He was baiting the bear and the bear was ready to tear into him given the chance.

But it didn’t. Instead of being the vicious and wild animal Stanford expected, this bear was tender, soft, affectionate. And he was of no mind to question its motives.

“I’ve been doin’ this for ya for a few nights. Helps ya sleep.”

Stanford warily held still as Bill brought Stan’s hands up to his face. There was enough give in the rope for ~~StanBill~~ him to cup Stanford’s cheeks in Stan’s large, warm hands. He could feel something like a cool wave flit over his face and up to his brow.

His eyes drifted closed, soaking in the warmth, and compassion like a dying man.

Stanford could feel the memory of the nightmare ease. Colors became washed out and dull. Heart stopping cackle muted. Shame faded to mild guilt, dread calmed to slight concern, into knowledge and understanding. He didn’t forget the dream, but he didn’t feel like his heart was twisting itself into knots. He felt, knew, he would be able to slip into a dreamless sleep if he wanted to.

But he didn’t want to.

He wanted to stay here. Stay in this gentle embrace, this light touch so full of affection and care and worry. He wanted to give in, to just…be loved. Because despite everything, despite how much he hated himself for it, a part of him still loved Bill. And that part of him was in control now.  

Once, long ago, he had craved this. Desired it so desperately he felt he would break from the lack of touch. He had wanted to bridge the gap between worlds if only to be able to hold or be held by this being. Knowing Bill was using his brother to do this was in no way diminishing the effects. Stanford felt a faint whisper of a question as to why, but his brain hurriedly sequestered it. (There were dark and forgotten places in Stanford’s mindscape. Places his conscious mind had no knowledge of. Places he had refused to remember or acknowledge for so long, they had all but ceased to be.)

His mind fogged, body relaxed, all nerves numbed save for that gentle point of contact on his face. In his mind, he saw Bill before him, but he could feel other thoughts, images, trying to push that image away, replace it with one of Stan. It was slow, and unobtrusive, but Stanford could feel the anxiety behind it. The slowly creeping taste of fear and a hint of desperation.

Bill wanted to make him think it was Stan doing this. But Stan wouldn’t. Stan wouldn’t do this, had never done this. Hugs, affectionate pats on the shoulder, when they were younger, tickle fights and platonic cuddling, but not this. Not something this…intimate. That’s how Stanford knew this was not his brother.

Bill was trying to manipulate him. He was trying to…

Stanford ripped himself from Bill’s touch upon that realization. Bill was manipulating him. He was trying to alter his thoughts. Alter his feelings. Again.

The dream! How much of the dream did he remember? How much had Bill changed? What had he made Stanford forget? The memory of his nightmare was dull, sun-damaged, and faded. He felt no real emotion when thinking of it. Nothing like the memory of the bone deep shame upon waking from its grasp. He felt numb, stupidly, and alarmingly numb where he had just felt soul rending remorse.

Bill had changed it. Changed him.

He would not let himself be this weak again.

He needed to keep his mind clear, to be his own. If that meant night terrors, then he would cope.

He pulled himself up and walked out into the dark galley, slamming the bulkhead behind him. He couldn’t do that again. No matter how he felt. He had to resist Bill’s pull, somehow.

It was time to continue their course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....I lied. I was way closer to a finished chapter than I thought. It's a shorter one. Oh God, I made myself cry with this. I know (and you guys know) Stan is still Stan, but writing from Ford’s perspective was brutal. God he’s so distraught. I think the next chapter will be another short one with the kids. That will take some time. 
> 
> I discussed Ford's flaws in this one. But I'll be getting to Stan/Bill's sins soon.


	10. Trouble in California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mabel thinks about Stan and Ford, Diane thinks about her uncles' shady history and Gina thinks about how to handle this. The women of the Pines family have a lot on thier minds.  
> Also !trigger warning! Diane wonders if Stan and Ford molested Dipper(Mason) and Mabel. They didn't. But she thinks they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Mable’s and Diane’s (their mom) perspective and a short flashback from Gina (Stan and Ford’s mom). I did a LOT of math and speculation and the only way I could make this work out comfortable without two teenage pregnancies, I made Shermy older than Stan and Ford. And the baby we see in ATOTS is Dan (Shermy’s son and Dipper and Mable’s dad). 
> 
> Second note: I “method write” kinda like method acting, so that means I need to be in a similar mood as the character I’m writing about in order to stay in character. I downed an entire 24 fl oz can of Monster in like two hours to try to emulate Mable. If you also method write, DON’T DO THIS! I was talking a mile a minute and felt like I could walk up walls. I didn’t try, but I probably could have. Learn from my mistakes!

For a thirteen-year-old girl from Piedmont California, Mabel Pines thought herself fairly resourceful. She could bring cheer to even the most black-hearted individuals, befriend almost anyone. Even in the worst situations, she could pull out the positives and look on the bright side. And even if there were no real positives, she would try to find a solution where everyone else had slopped looking.

That was what she was doing now. Trying to find a solution to something that was completely hopeless. She refused to be without hope that there was something else happening. Because Mable did think that something else was happening; there _had_ to be some other explanation to Stan’s behavior. Even _if_ her Grunkle was possessed, they had saved Stan from Bill before, they could do it again! She just needed to think. She just needed time to do research.

Dipper had chosen to take Grunkle Ford’s lead; he had gone to the library and had found as much on demonic possession and exorcisms as possible. The books and printouts and documentaries were stacked on his bed and spread out on the floor; is computer was open and was playing a scene from a horror movie: The Daemon Removal Squad. It was corny. Mabel was trying a different approach.

She and Dipper had gone over all the information they had and had categorized it from most concerning to least concerning; a color gradient from purple to brown (her favorite and least favorite colors respectively). Grunkle Ford was at first worried that Stan was acting kinda strange. But Grunkle Stan was always kinda strange; he called himself ‘Mr. Mystery’ after all.  

Stan had shown that he could read Gaelic (and the twins knew he could speak Spanish), he was adapting to technology at a much faster rate than even Grunkle Ford, and he knew about chemistry. The biggest questions Mabel had were answering the mysterious treats and blue fire handshake. Those were gonna be hard. 

So, the question now was, were these things evidence enough that Stan wasn’t himself? Dipper said that Grunkle Ford was first thinking about trauma. Maybe that was it. Maybe Stan was having some sort of phycological break and he thought he was Bill after having Bill in his mind, and then having it erased and then put back together. Mabel’s head hurt just thinking about it.

Stan knew about chemistry, so that meant he likely knew about chemical reactions and cool chemical tricks that like the ones their teacher had shown them. Mabel had seen something on YouTube about a guy that could use some kind of chemical to light his hand on fire and the flames were blue. Maybe he was just playing a really mean joke on Ford. Maybe he was really sick and they needed to get him to a therapist.

These were all things that were much more likely than a dream daemon coming back from being erased. That was as close to dead as she thinks Bill could be.

Ford had told Dipper that a package of toffee peanuts and jellybeans appeared as if by magic. But Mabel was good at finding things that were hard to get. Her hidden stash of Smile Dip attested to that ability. She had gone back to the Dusk-2-Dawn and had a wonderful conversation with the ghost couple there. They had let her take as much Smile Dip as she wanted. It was her guilty pleasure; anything she saw in Smile Dip Land was way less scary than what she had experienced in Gravity Falls last summer.

She tracked down the producer of toffee peanuts and contacted them. It helped that she had no fear of talking on the phone; her brother always had to triple check that he had the right number and then read from a script. They were an American based company, but their offshore branches had different production lines than what was in America. So, while toffee peanuts were discontinued in America because they weren’t popular (and really who would like them but her Grunkle Stan), they were still available in Denmark where they were really popular. A quick search told her that Iceland and Denmark were close trade partners and it was likely that Stan could have picked up a bag somewhere.

So, it wasn’t at the bakery he said it was. Maybe Stan forgot where he found them and he didn’t think it was a big deal. They jellybeans were also explained away as Stan hiding them and surprising Ford the next morning. It was all so silly really; her boys were just jumping to conclusions. Nope, no supernatural things going on here. Everything could be explained away. But, to be on the safe side, she should probably help Dipper read up on exorcisms.

Most of the books and articles were religious texts and talked about using holy water and crosses. Mabel didn’t think that crosses were going to do anything against Bill. The idea of holy water was still up for debate, though; she wasn’t entirely convinced it wouldn’t just burn her Grunkle Stan, possessed or not. Their family was a mix between Jewish and modern Cristian, but aside from the memories that Dipper had told her about, she didn’t think that Stan was religious in any way.

There was also a lot of notes suggesting telling the person how much their family loved them would help drive out the daemon. They could do that! They all loved Grunkle Stan! And he had gone so long without being told someone loved him, it would do him good. Maybe that was how Bill had taken over Stan; Grunkle Ford wasn’t telling his brother how much he loved him. Next time they got to talk to him, she was going to give her Grunkle Ford a piece of her mind. They had spent so much time apart; they needed to tell each other how much they loved each other! Just thinking about being separated from Dipper for thirty days (let alone thirty years) made her want to rush over and hug her brother.

For now, she would settle for just sitting on the floor by his bed and resting her head against his leg. She felt him absently reach down and run his fingers through her hair. It always helped her calm down when they were younger. Just like she used to draw pictures with her fingers (and sometimes markers) on Dipper’s back and tell him stories when he was sick or couldn’t sleep. Dipper would _never, ever_ admit it, but he used to like it when she did his make-up; something about liking the way the make-up brushed felt on his face. They hadn’t done that in a while. She thought that they were getting to old for stuff like that, but maybe this was the perfect time to try again. They both were having a rough time acclimating back to normal life.

There was no weirdness at home. No gnomes, no magic, no weird flowers that made you all dizzy, no ghosts, no dinosaurs…just nothing. It was all so…normal. So normal it was boring. She never thought she would _want_ to be surrounded by crazy weirdness and magical creatures. Heck, before this past summer, she didn’t even watch Ghost Harassers with Dipper; now she eagerly sat with him and even asked questions.

Dipper was also suffering from weirdness withdrawal. His new journal to record all the weird things in Piedmont was empty. The first few pages were filled with introductions, and lists of things he wanted to see and was packed full of notes from Grunkle Ford’s journals, but no entries of Dipper’s own. Her new scrapbook sat neglected too. She had taken tons of pictures the first few weeks back and during their first week of school, but then she just…didn’t want to anymore. It was like she didn’t have the energy or the interest like she used to. She still liked to draw, her wall was covered with drawings, but they were all of the same things; her friends, Grenda and Candy, Wendy and Soos, Waddles, the Mystery Shack and her Grunkles.

Stan and Ford had sent them a postcard from Rhode Island before they set sail. It was a picture of them standing proudly on their new boat, The Stan O’War II. All her drawings after that had been of them on the ship, fighting sea monsters and hugging penguins. Soos had sent her a letter with some of his “Stan-fiction” and they had started writing back and forth about what her Grunkles were up to. She didn’t know how she was going to tell Soos that his dad might be in trouble. Because Stan _was_ Soos’s dad; it didn’t matter if they weren’t related, family was family.

It didn’t take long for Mabel to get bored of reading about all the dramatic passages she was supposed to say when exorcising a daemon, and she had no idea where they were gonna get a bucket of salt blessed by the Pope from. Instead, she focused on finishing the little trench coat she had knitted for the owl plush she made to look like Grunkle Ford. It was a project she had started not too long after she got back home. She had picked out the stuffed animals that reminded her the most of her friends and family and had gotten to work.

She had picked out a frilled lizard for Grenda (complete with knitted pink shirt and bow), a mouse for Candy (with a perfect little green stripped dress), Soos was a gopher (she had added a plastic fish bowl over the green hat after reading Grunkle Ford’s notes on Soos) and Wendy was a fox (she had made a replica of Dipper’s old pine tree had out of felt).

She had been working on Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford, (a silver fox and grey owl respectively) and hadn’t finished Grunkle Ford’s trench coat yet. She had made their glasses out of pipe cleaners and that plastic film that came from those envelopes with bills and other grown-up mail. Stan’s fez had been made out of felt covered cardboard and yarn, but as Dipper pointed out, it should be on Soos’s head now. The fishbowl had been replaced and instead she knitted a red beanie for Stan. She considered sewing Ford and Stan’s hands (er, paw and wing) together, but she suspected that Dipper was sneaking owl Ford back to his bed at night. She wasn’t the only one missing her family.

She felt the hand running through her hair stop as Dipper checked his phone again. They hadn’t heard from their Great Uncle Ford in a while. Dipper had sent multiple texts and had tried calling twice. She knew that he shouldn’t worry. Ford was probably getting sleep, or they were going through a bad patch. Maybe. She really hoped they were ok. Dipper’s phone sat like a holy relic on the nightstand.

After twelve hours with no word, they were starting to get worried. At seventeen hours, neither one could eat more than a few bites of dinner without feeling sick. By twenty-two hours, they were pouring over books and references and old notes of Dipper’s on Grunkle Ford’s journals just to distract themselves.

By the time their parents had come to tell them to go to bed, Mabel had stress knitted a scarf that would have been able to tie Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford together from head to toe. She also had a stash of Mabel juice in a resealable water bottle hidden under her bed. She wasn’t planning on sleeping and miss any contact from Ford. The fact that Dipper had also snuck in a bottle told her all she needed to know; they were in this for the long haul. They were both way too anxious to sleep now.  

What didn’t help was their mom coming in and asking them if she could ask them a serious question.

“I guess, what’s wrong?” Dipper was always the one to get to the point and ask the right questions.

“Are we in trouble?” She, on the other hand, had a habit of guessing at the problem and jumping to solutions first.

“No, no, of course not. Dad and I were just worried about you. You’ve been acting…well, a little strange since coming home. And for the past day I haven’t been able to get two words out of either of you.” Diane sat on the end of Mabel’s bed, gesturing for Dipper to come join them. He did, but chose to stand rather than find a spot amongst Mabel’s pile of stuffed animal friends and family.

Diane sighed. Mabel could tell this was hard for their mom. They wanted to tell her and dad both what had happened to them, but would their parents even believe them? Heck, _she_ wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t lived it; it sounded like a best-selling teen novel. Mable sat her finished Grunkle Ford owl in her lap, fully intending on soaking up the hugs she could from it before Dipper stole it for the night.  

Their mom looked disquieted. Like she didn’t actually want the answer to the question that she wanted to ask. Diane steeled herself, taking a steadying breath before the question came in stutters from her lips. “Did…oh God,…did your Grunkle Stan ever…ask you to do something you didn’t want to do?” Diane was shaking and wouldn’t look her children in the eyes.   

Mabel shared a confused look with her brother. Neither one could make out what their mom had really meant. This was really weird. Their mom never acted like this. And why was she asking about Stan? Did she know? Had she figured out what was wrong? But her question didn’t make any sense. Had Stan asked them to do something they didn’t want to? Well, yeah, but why was that bad? They asked Dipper and Mabel to do things like chores and homework all the time; how was Stan different? She reached for her Stan plush and frowned at it. Dipper answered for them; scratching at his arm and looking concerned.

“Well, I mean, sure. We helped in the gift shop, and did chores and stuff. And Stan made us go fishing, which actually was kind of fun, but nothing, abnormal. Not any different from what we do here. Why?” Dipper looked skeptical. Good, he had picked up on the hidden meaning behind mom’s question too. Mable looked from her brother back to her mom, mouth pulled into a quizzical frown.

“You’re sure? Because even if he told you not to tell anyone, you know you can tell us.” She looked pointedly at Mabel who had not yet responded. “You won’t get in trouble. I just want to know if he…if…” She couldn’t finish.

Diane was white. She looked so scared. Mabel didn’t understand what her mom was worried about or what she was trying to get at, but if her parents were this scared, well. It was time. Even if their parents didn’t believe them, it was time to tell them what happened in Gravity Falls.

She looked to Dipper and silently asked for confirmation. He nodded, turning to gather what notes he had. She set her plushies aside and leaned over to the side table and pulled out her scrapbook; the one she had lovingly encased in glitter glue and fabric to keep protected.  

“Mom?” Mabel said, clutching the wrapped scrapbook to her chest.

“We have something to tell you. Something that you probably won’t believe, but we need you to try.” Dipper finished the statement for her, pulling out his own journal and all the remaining notes he had from the past summer.

“Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford are not what they seem.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Diane Pines thought herself a very caring and knowledgeable mother. She liked to think that she knew what her children were thinking or feeling. She knew they were worried about something, but no matter how many times or how indirectly she asked, neither of her twins would divulge any information. She couldn’t even sneak a peek at her son’s phone; both twins had been carrying it around in shifts and neither one would let it leave their person.

Nothing seemed to get through. She had a feeling that it might relate to the happenings over the summer. She, nor her husband, Daniel, were stupid. The children had come back from Gravity Falls very different then when they left. At first, with the nightmares, she had thought they had been neglected or abused, but they insisted that Stanley (and later Stanford) had been the best of caretakers. They had refused to talk about their nightmares.

Some eavesdropping let her know that her children didn’t think that their parents would believe them. Mason had insisted that she and Dan were too hardheaded about the paranormal, while Mabel had decided that she didn’t want to worry them if they did choose to believe the crazy adventures the twins had gotten up to over the summer. The fact that her children had decided their parents would dismiss their concerns or that the summer’s events would worry them, made her even more afraid.  

It hurt that her children didn’t feel they could come to her with their problems. But, they were thirteen and had spent their first summer away from home. They were growing up, and they were learning how to deal with their own problems. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister going on. It didn’t help that she was embittered towards Stanley (nee Stanford) after the truth had come out.

“Oh sure, lie about your identity for thirty years while you take over your brother’s name and house while you track down said missing brother! While we’re at it, let’s fake your death and then distance yourself from the family until your father dies and your nephew contacts you out of guilt!” Her husband had patiently listed to her rant and rave in the kitchen the night the twins came home. They had told her a fairly condensed story about how Stanford had gone missing thirty years ago and Stanley had kept his brother’s house by turning it into a tourist trap and spent those thirty years trying to find his brother. That Stanford had magically come home unexpectedly one day after government agents had gotten involved.

She was very angry with Stanley. And she had no idea what to think of the real Stanford; though since he had been missing for THIRTY YEARS, and NO ONE was willing to say where he had been, well, both twins were on her ‘shit list’.

Her children loved them, though. So as angry as she and her husband were, they didn’t let it show. For their kids, they would try to forgive. It didn’t hurt that Dan was very excited to meet the intellectual prodigy that was Stanford Filbrick Pines. Upon discovering that the con man and tourist attraction purveyor was _not_ the person who had written “Accounting for Physical and Chemical Irregularities Occurring in Objects affected by Differing Conditions of Spacetime” and the actual author was far more ‘nerdy’, he was elated and eager to have them over for the holidays. Unfortunately (though fortunately for her) the twins had gone exploring the Arctic Sea at the end of the summer and would not be back on this side of the country for at least eight months (or so they had planned). A Spring visit would also allow her time to properly clean her house and prepare the guest room. It had become her office space of late; she worked as an appraiser for a realtor agency and needed a space to work from home. 

It also gave her time to get over any residual anger. Some days it seemed so easy to forgive, when her children were smiling and laughing about their summer antics and reminiscing about all the fun they had. Some nights it was hard, damn near impossible, to forgive when her children woke up screaming and clinging to one another for comfort. Neither one ever willing to tell their parents what was wrong.

It terrified her to think what might have happened that her own children wouldn’t talk about it. Dan had guiltily mention the family secret, and now both of them feared that their children had been witness (or, God forbid, participants) in… _that_. She didn’t want to think poorly of her husband’s family, but it was well known that they didn’t talk about Stanford and Stanley in polite company…or any company.  

Diane had first met the man when the twins were born. He had rushed down from Oregon upon Sherman’s call. In less than seven hours (she suspected he had neglected road traffic laws) he was in the waiting room with her husband and Sherman. They had joked about the last time Stanley (then Stanford) had seen his nephew, was when he had been an infant being babysat by Gina and Filbrick. The night that his brother (he) had been kicked out. Stanley had taken a somber look until the nurse had told them that Diane had gone into labor. Only Dan was allowed in the delivery room, Stan and Sherman remained outside looking through the window.

After the twins had been born, cleaned, and passed around to everyone (Stan had stolen them from Sherman and had both parents laughing), they had allowed her to walk down to the cafeteria and get food. Her father-in-law had gone with her, the other men too busy cooing over the infants to bother.   

She had asked about Stan, about why he was so distant from the rest of the family. Sherman had told her than his younger siblings were close. Unusually close. Apparently, there had been some…suspicions, that they were far closer than is right for siblings. He had gotten uncomfortable when she asked how and wouldn’t explain further. All he said was it wasn’t something the family talked about. The only reason he knew, was because Gina had needed to ask _someone_ and Filbrick would have…well he would have handled it poorly.

Marianne (her mother-in-law) had just gotten off a long shift in the geriatrics ward and had come down to see the new additions to the family. It gave her enough time to ask her husband about Stanley (then Stanford). He told her that his dad never talked about it, and grandma refused to look at him when he asked. He could never get anything out of his dad. She had an opportunity to go straight to the source when the twins were 11 and Filbrick suffered a sudden heart attack.

After Filbrick had passed and Gina was preparing to move in with Sherman and Marianne. The eldest son couldn’t find it in himself to put his mother in an assisted living home. They had all flown out to New Jersey that summer to help her pack and sell the house. Diane had gone to Gina for conformation about what happened to cause Stanley and Stanford to be such a taboo subject. It took time, but in her vulnerable state, Gina was willing to divulge a nearly forty-year secret.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  

Gina and Filbrick had gone out to dinner to celebrate their anniversary and had left the twins behind. They were eighteen; she could trust them for a few hours to have some time alone with her husband. Sherman was living on his own by then and was going steady with Marianne. Everything had been going…well, generally speaking. Stanford was on his way to graduating in the top of his class that year and Stanley…well Stanley had been pulling his grades up steadily. They wouldn’t get him into any college, but he would graduate and could get a job in town.

Although, Filbrick had his own thoughts about that. He was determined to teach Stanley how to be a man and provide for himself. She never understood why he was so hard on Stanley and not Stanford; they were both her special little boys and she loved them equally. She had always tried to be fair, but Filbrick had homed in on Stanley and had not yet let up. Boxing lessons, refusing to get him new glasses when he had gotten into a fight that had broken his, insisting that he not cry because it wasn’t manly, telling him to take his wounds like a man when he lost a particularly bad boxing match, telling him he punched like a girl, criticizing him for wearing a pink suit to prom…it just never stopped. Stanford never got the same treatment and she never knew why.

They had gotten into a tiff in the car, her and Filbrick, about what Stanley was going to do after graduation. Filbrick had off-handedly considered finding him his own place, or at the very least making Stanley pay rent. No mention was made about Stanford or any expectations about what Stanford should do. She had had enough. She was out of the car and marching up the stairs to the main house in a flurry of anger as soon as the car was in park. She as so done with Filbrick’s unfair treatment of the twins. Sherman was the golden child, the first born; it was like Stanford and Stanley were unwanted extras. Sherman and the twins were only five years part for goodness sake! Gina was just mounting the top of the stairs when she saw…it.

Her sons, her twin boys…       

They had been curled up with each other watching a romantic drama on TV. Not entirely unusual for the boys; they were damn near joined at the hip, partners in crime. Nope, cuddling was not unusual for the Pines Twins, at least, far out of Filbrick’s sight anyway. The delicate kiss shared between them was, however, _very_ unusual. The kiss is what stopped Gina in her tracks; balanced at the top of the stairs.

Gina’s mind stalled, turned off. She didn’t understand what she was seeing, her mind couldn’t comprehend the sight in front of her. Her sons’ eyes filled with fear. They hadn’t moved. The boys had been so frightened and shocked by their mother’s sudden arrival that they hadn’t even made an effort to separate themselves. Stanley’s hand resting on Stanford’s cheek, other hand braced against the back of the sofa. Stanford himself had buried his hands into Stanley’s hair and shirt collar. She suspected that this was not the first time this had happened. The thought made her ashamedly queasy.    

Gina had been so relieved that Filbrick had stopped to take care of something in the shop. She feared what would have happened if he had seen them. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, listening for the door downstairs. “Your father is coming. This”, she gestured at them, “will. not. happen. again.” Her words were punctuated with barely leashed emotion. The twins had scrambled away from one another; Stanford scooping up a physics book and Stanley rapidly changing the channel to a boxing match. They were just sliding into place and Gina finishing hanging her coat when Filbrick entered.

He had nodded in greeting to both boys, who greeted him quickly and politely in response. Filbrick entered the kitchen, apartment eerily quiet with the only sound coming from the television announcer. Both twins refused to look in her direction; Stanford burying his face in his textbook and Stanley’s eyes glued to the screen. What was she going to do? What was she going to say? What _do_ you say when you catch your children, your twin boys, kissing each other?    

Filbrick grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed back down to the shop to repair some appliance he had gotten in that afternoon, pausing to kiss her cheek and remind the kids to clean up after the match was over. Popcorn bowls, sodas, toffee peanuts and jellybeans littered the coffee table. When the door to the shop was firmly closed, Gina paced a finger to her lips and pointed to the twins’ room. They obeyed, sparing less than a moment to look at one another. She followed them, closing the bedroom door softly. She steeled herself a moment, pushing down her emotions and calming her racing mind, before addressing the one problem she never thought she’d face.

They refused to look at her. The bunkbed they had as children was still pushed up against the right wall; they had refused to separate the beds as they got older. Stanley sat on the bottom bunk, Stanford stood beside the desk. “Look at me.” The harshness of her voice startled her. She needed to not be anger. She honestly didn’t know why she was angry. She didn’t know why she insisted they look at her. It was just going to be harder. Stanford complied, hesitantly, and eyes noticeably watery. Stanley couldn’t; his head was bent low, fists griping the bedsheets and shoulders hunched. It would do.

“I don’t know how long this had been going on” Stanford opened his mouth to respond, but she held her hand up to stop him, “and I don’t care. It _cannot_ happen again. Do you understand me? Never again. What if it was your father, huh?” Both boys flinched at the mention of Filbrick Pines. They were both so scared of their father, and she could understand why. The man was hard edged and had very specific and uncompromising view of the world and his family’s place in it. If the family stepped out of line, they would know. Stanford nor Stanley fit the mold Filbrick tried to shove them in.

Gina was a little more understanding, but this…this was going to be hard. There was no good way to handle this. It was wrong. It shouldn’t be happening. Thank God, they were both men; she didn’t want to think about the potential problems if either Stanley of Stanford had been female. She felt a small lump of disgust well up in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t understand, she _couldn’t_ understand. However, she would not let her feelings inject themselves into this; she loved her sons, it didn’t matter what they did. But this needed to stop.    

“Look,” she knelt down to Stanley’s side; his closed eyes barely holding back tears, “I won’t deny that this will take some time for me to come to terms with. But if you are…of that persuasion, if you both are,” She paused to look at Stanford, his eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “I won’t love you any less. Do you understand me? I still love you.” Stanley looked up at her then. Tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. Stanford had taken a step towards them; he looked dazed, as if her statement was unexpected. She wouldn’t lie to them and tell them everything would be ok, they deserved the truth. But she would not stop loving them. It would just take time, a long time, for her to be ok with this. She continued.

“But please, please, no more of this. Not…” she paused, trying to find the right words. “Not with each other.” It was so strange how the thought of either of her boys kissing another man didn’t bring up the same feelings of revulsion as before. She knew they were close. She knew they didn’t have other friends. She had heard about what happened at prom (she spent four hours trying to get the punch out of their suits). She knew how hard it was for them to make friends, let alone girlfriends (or she guessed, boyfriends). She should have seen this coming. She should have seen how close they were and intervened. That was why Filbrick had been so hard on Stanley. It had to be. He knew something, suspected something. Oh, God. If he ever found out…if he ever knew what they had done. Gina felt a spike of fear race down her spine.   

“And don’t ever let your father know. Dear God, don’t ever let him find out.” She took a moment to collect herself and stand up. She gathered Stanley up in a bone crushing hug, squeezing him a moment before lifting one arm to allow Stanford to join them. He kissed both of their heads in turn. “I don’t care if you’re…if you like men. I still love you. But please be careful. The world is not a nice place to people who are different. You both should know that by now.” She felt Stanford’s hand grip tighter into the fabric of her dress. Yes, the whole family knew what being different was like. But they were Pines, they wouldn’t let that stop them. She wanted her children to be happy. She would do anything to ensure that they were happy and healthy. Her next words were barely a whisper, mumbled into Stanley’s hair line.   

“My advice, wait until you are on your own before…being open. I don’t know how your father will react, but if you’re on your own, there’s nothing he can do.” She held them tighter. She wouldn’t let go of them no matter what. She’d promised herself, even if she had to visit them in prison, she would hold onto them. She pretended not to notice Stanford’s fingers shyly tracing down Stanley’s arm. They were comforting each other. That was it. Why did it feel like she was trying to convince herself?    

She let them go after giving them both another squeeze. She started towards the door, pausing a moment to look back at her sons. She pretended to not see them discreetly reach out for one another and clasp hands. “We never spoke of this. This never happened.” They both nodded. She left, closing the door behind her.

In the coming weeks, Gina pretended not to notice the telltale signs of teen hormones; mussed hair, bruised lips, furtive eyes. She didn’t know what to do about any of this. Despite her warnings, she suspected they hadn’t stopped. Had continued to explore things with one another. She was relieved that the thought didn’t make her feel sick anymore. Now she was just scared for them. She tried to tell herself they had just been experimenting with a trusted person. That they would grow out of it in time, it was just hormones. But it all got lost in the wake of the science fair.     

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tearfully, Gina confessed that she and Filbrick were the reasons why Stanley (then Stanford) was so alienated from his family. It had come out at after they heard about Stanley’s death. She had let slip what had occurred that night. Filbrick had been livid and had forbidden anyone from going to the funeral. She had tried to call up to the house in Oregon, but only got an answering machine. She left a tearful explanation of why they didn’t go, her love and her forgiveness, asking for forgiveness in return. Stan had died in a car accident not too far from Gravity Falls after all. He had probably been trying to see Stanford. Trying to make up.

Diane had sat and comforted Gina for a while after her tale. She told Dan a very brief recap of the story. They agreed to never mention it to the kids, nor ever speak openly about it. It was something the Pines family was deeply ashamed of. And it had happened so long ago, she didn’t want it to color her children’s perspective of their family.

As soon as the kids had gotten home and the wonderous tale of lost brothers and hidden identities had been told, Dan had called his father and Grandmother up and informed them of the news. From what she heard from Dan, who heard from Sherman, who had overheard half a conversation between the twins and Gina, the news had not been received well.   

“Thirty years, Stanford! Where the hell were you?! Did you get kidnapped, just up and leave with no explanation?! And you Stanley, I know you’re listening, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Taking over your brother’s name, making us think you were dead! Do you know how much pain you put me through?!”

It would be almost funny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking. Apparently, they had promised to come visit as soon as the next summer rolled around. Gina was not a woman to be trifled with; she had survived a marriage with Filbrick Pines after all, she was as tough as they came.

It was all wonderful and good…until her children had woken up screaming less than a week home, and refused to talk about what had happened. They were at their wits end when Dan brought up the ‘incident’. She had hesitantly called Gina the next day, telling her about the children and inquiring about Stan’s ‘persuasions’. She didn’t want to accuse, but these were her children. She would do anything, come hell or high water, to keep them safe.  

As much as the older members of the family had reassured her and Dan that nothing had happened to the kids. That neither Stanley nor Stanford would ever even consider laying a hand on the kids that way, Diane couldn’t get the thought out of her head. Her children would not be waking up screaming most nights if something horrible hadn’t happened.  

So, she had made up her mind. She would ask them flat out. Or, she would try. They were children; would they even understand what had happened to them? She wondered when she had started thinking of it as what rather than if. She had almost convinced herself that Stanley Pines was a dangerous man, a disgusting piece of wasted space when she finally confronted her children. The answer she got was very far removed from what she expected. 

“Mom?” He beautiful, sweet and innocent daughter looked at her with eyes that suddenly looked much older and wiser than they should. Mabel held out the wrapped scrap book that contained memories from the past summer. 

“We have something to tell you. Something that you probably won’t believe, but we need you to try.” Her darling son held the same hardness in his eyes, like he’d been to war and survived its atrocities.

“Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford are not what they seem.” 


	11. Summer Tales and Smile Dip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mason and Mabel tell their parents what happened in Gravity Falls over the summer and confide thier fears about thier Grunkles' safety. Mabel overhears disturbing news and she copes with unhealthy substances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor !trigger warning! for drug use imagery. Dipper and Mabel use Smile Dip to cope with what’s happening. I know it isn’t actually drug use, (just super sugar) but the way Mabel handles it, there are definite parallels. I’ll update the tags too.

Mason was right, she didn’t believe it. Nothing about what her children had told her made any sense. Dan had come in not long after the start of the story, wondering why the kids were still up. He didn’t believe it either. But there was proof. They were looking right at all the pictures and tufts of hair, and scales from some lizard, and letters from a legitimate merman.

There was even a photograph inside an envelope of a yellow triangle with one eye floating in the sky in front of a giant red cross that had burst from the clouds. The photograph had been taken by one of Mabel’s friends, Grenda, Mabel had said. There were more photographs too, of flying eyeballs with bat wings, of things partly or wholly turned to stone, of Stanley shooting down some strange thing that looked like an undone cubics cube with eyes.

There were more, far more photographs that Diane didn’t have the mental capacity to look at; Dan took the envelope from her to flip though.

“I don’t understand”

“How…how did we not heard about this? How was this not on the news? How has all of this been hidden for so long?” How had this not made national, no, INTER-national headlines?! Forget for a moment that Armageddon had nearly happened; Gravity Falls on a normal day was strange enough to attract any number of scientists. And it had, because a scientist had caused most of this. Nearly caused the end of the world and _her_ children had lived through it, had played a part in preventing it. SO great and groovy, everything was ok now, except it still didn’t explain why the town hadn’t gone absolutely insane with all the supernatural things living there.

“Well, there was this group of really power-hungry people that had this memory erasing deally and they went around erasing the town’s memories of all the weird things that happened. But we broke the only one we could find, so no one will forget anymore. But the Mayor passed a law that forbids anyone from talking about…about…hey Dipper, what did Grunkle Ford call Bill’s take over?” Mabel was babbling like her usual self again. It would have been soothing to a mother’s heart if it weren’t for the fact that Mabel was recounting her and her family’s brush with death. Multiple brushes with death. Diane thought she had a new reason to be angry with her uncles now.

“Weirdmageddon.” Mason sounded like the word he spoke was from sacred text. It was a bad pun, even she knew that. Stanford was really bad at names.  

“Yeah, that.” Mabel looked dopey with catharsis, like finally getting to talk about what they experienced was lifting a weight off her shoulders. Like she had just ingested an entire cup of hot chocolate after coming inside from the cold. Mason also looked like his body was melting, like the stress was the only thing keeping him upright.    

“So even if you talked to anyone, they probably won’t tell you. Unless…” Her son was lazily tapping away at his chin.

“Unless?” Diane turned her head at Dan’s unexpected response. He had always been far more interested in the weird and bizarre than she had. Diane hoped that he wasn’t actually believing all this nonsense. Although, as crazy as it all sounded, it corresponded with her children’s behavior. And as hard as it was to go back to when _she_ had been 12 and believed in unicorns and gnomes and magic, it felt far better to believe that this ‘Weirdmageddon’ had happened than the alternative that had kept her up most nights.

“Well, we could call up Soos and Melody at the Mystery Shack tomorrow. You’re our parents, so I think he’d be ok talking to you about what happened.” Mason had mentioned this ‘Soos’, he sounded very laid back and down to Earth. And he apparently had taken control of the Mystery Shack when Stanley had left. A respectable business man. Yes, she was feeling good about calling this man and getting to the bottom of this ‘Weirdpocolypse’ business.

“Is that what had been worrying you today?” Dan asked from beside her, “Dealing with the fallout from all this…all of what happened to you this summer?”

The twins shared a look that spoke volumes. Sometimes, when she would let herself be weak enough to admit it, she was a bit jealous that twins had that ability; she loved her husband dearly, but even they didn’t have the ability to be as in sync with one another as her children.

“No. Ummm” Mason was hesitant to explain further. So, there was something worse than a yellow triangle from another dimension that had tried to take over the world? Diane didn’t know how much more she was willing to sit through before she booked a trip to wherever the hell the Stan Twins were and wring their necks. She didn’t care if they were in the middle of the ocean, she would take a row boat if she had to.  

“Bill…” The timid sound of her daughter’s voice drew Diane’s attention back to the current situation. Her children were still distressed about something. Dan rifled through the pictures in his lap and pulled out the one of the triangle with one eye. The picture gave her an uneasy feeling, even looking at it indirectly from the corner of her eye.   

“The triangle guy?” Dan asked, holding up the picture. “What about him? You said he was erased.” Dan considered the photograph skeptically. It made her think of secret societies and big government.

“Yeah…He might be back.” Her children should not sound so world weary at thirteen. They should not sound like the world’s problems rested on their shoulders. But Mason wasn’t just solemn, he was scared. She could see it in the way he held himself. She could hear it in his voice that sounded like he was trying to do anything but admit the possibility. Mabel chewed on her thumbnail and shared her brother’s posture.    

“How?” Diane was startled to realize the question had come from her.

“Remember how we said Grunkle Ford beat him by tricking him into Grunkle Stan’s mind and then erasing it.” Mabel’s words were rushed and mumbled as she continued to chew on her fingernail. Diane had used to put a bitterant in the nail polish Mabel bought to keep her from the habit, but the girl had stopped wearing in after the summer.   

“Yes” Diane was not ready to hear about this. The fact that Stanley Pines had apparently saved the world by giving himself amnesia was hard enough to wrap her brain abound. Mason continued.

“Well, Ford texted us yesterday and said that Stan had been acting strange.” Stan was acting strange. How was this something to worry about? “He told us at lunch that Stan had tried to make a deal with him.” Again, how was this strange? Stan was a con man and tourist trap aficionado. Deals were his bread and butter. Diane wasn’t following.

“Let me guess, blue flames?” Dan spoke up, evidently being much more aware of the intricacies of the story Mason and Mable had told them. The twins nodded together. Mason picked up his phone and opened his text messages before handing it to her. It was a conversation thread between her son and Stanford. She bent her head together with Dan’s and read.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They had explained everything, well, not _everything_ , but they had explained most things and certainly the important parts. Their parents were informed or the situation and they had promised to help if they could. They even agreed to call Soos and Melody the next day to confirm. Mabel didn’t know if her parents believed them, but they had certainly not gotten mad at them for making stuff up. But she was still worried about the reason their mom had come up to talk to them in the first place.

Mom had asked about Grunkle Stan like he had done something wrong. And sure, Grunkle Stan was a criminal, he had said so himself, but Mom had made it sound like she thought Stan had done something to them. It made her feel all ukey and sick inside.

As soon as their parents had closed the door, she slipped out of bed with the silent ease of someone who routinely sneaks out for midnight snacks. The carpet muted her footsteps as she tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against it. The conversation she heard made her tummy do flips and made her really want a hug from her grunkles.   

“So, I guess your theory that Stan or Ford molested them was way off.”

“I still don’t know if I believe all of this. What if it’s just a fantasy story they made up to cope with…God!”

“Hey, enough of that. If it is all fake, then we’ll find out by tomorrow. This ‘Soos’ sounds reasonable enough. We’ll call him up tomorrow and see what he had to say.”  

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thought…I just, I was so scared and they wouldn’t say anything! I let my brain go to the worst thing.”

“Can you blame them? I mean, they even have proof and someone who we can talk to, and even I don’t know for sure if I can believe it.”

“I’m so sorry for thinking the worst about your family. Daniel, I’m so, so very sorry.”

“I’m the one that brought it up in the first place. I’m going to call dad tomorrow too, and let them know what’s going on. I know there isn’t much that we can do, and a doubt that they will believe it, but I have to tell them.”

Mabel heard her parent’s voices fade as they walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. She missed the end of their conversation, they were speaking to quietly and were too far away for Mabel to make out the words. She didn’t think she wanted to hear it anymore anyway.

She knew what that word meant. She knew what her parents had thought of her Grunkles and it tore at her insides. It made her want to cry. It made her want to scream, to run down stairs after them and tell them they were wrong about Grunkles. She turned away from the door and marched straight over to Dipper’s bed, flopping down onto the unwashed comforter and hiding her face.

“Mabel…what did you hear?”

“Feyyy ouf MMfaam moffeffed uff”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

She turned her face away from the blankets just enough to move her mouth enough to get those stupid grown-up words out. The words tasted bitter and gross and made her stomach twist again.

“They thought Stan and Ford molested us…” Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

“WHAT!?”

Mabel just nodded and pressed her face back into the blankets. She felt Dipper climb off the bed and start frantically pacing.

“How can they…? Why? Why would they think…? What’s their evidence? You don’t just go to that without having a reason. Why would they even suspect that? Did someone say something? Does Stan have a history doing that?!”

Mabel cringed at Dipper’s questions. She didn’t want to think about it. She just wanted it to go back to being like it was before yesterday; when the only problem she had was trying to finish her homework. When the threats from this past summer were so far away and nothing could ruin the holidays aside from her Grunkles not being there.

Dipper’s paced the length of the room, continuing to mutter to himself at a lower volume. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t listening anyway. Everything was wrong, and Dipper’s stupid phone had been sitting there, taunting them with its silence, ALL. DAY. She didn’t know if she could take it anymore. The not knowing, the worry, the anger at her parents for even thinking Stan or Ford could do anything wrong. She just wanted to be happy, just for a moment. Just a moment where everything felt ok. She felt a strange sense of guilt when she remembered the purse under her bed. 

She rolled off Dipper’s bed and crawled over to her own. She rifled through the things under her bed before laying flat and reaching way in the back to the wall for her stash. Smile Dip Land used to be scary, but it couldn’t be worse than what was happening now.

She pulled out the whole purse. It was a big one, like the oversized floppy ones that she’d seen old lady’s use, and she used it to its fullest potential. It was stuffed to full of packets of smile dip that the seams were stretched tight and she couldn’t close it all the way.

She rolled over, placing the purse in her lap before Dipper stopped his pacing to realize that she had moved.

“Mabel?” He took a few tentative steps towards her. She reached in the purse and dug out two packs of the candy that was too unhealthy and too much deliciously refined sugar to be legally sold in America anymore.

“Mabel, what?”

She held one out to Dipper, the yellow mascot dog smiling at her upside-down. When Dipper didn’t take it, she shook it at him. “Dipper, I’m gonna eat it, and as long as you don’t eat more than two or three packs you’ll be fine. I know it can make you see things, but I need to see something happy right now. Grunkle Stan might be possessed by Bill, Grunkle Ford might be in danger and mom and dad think they did something horrible to us and I just…” Mabel paused to take a breath and to look away from Dipper. She didn’t know if he would judge her, but she wasn’t brave enough to look him in the eye.

“Mabel, where did you get that? Why do you have so much of it?” She didn’t answer. Dipper was smart, he knew where she got it. Where else would she have gotten a hold of so much? So, she had looked into ordering some offline; she hadn’t yet, her stash from the Dusk-2-Dawn had hardly been touched. It wasn’t like she ate this stuff every day. She only had one pack every once in a while, only when she really wanted to feel good, or when they got sad news; like when the lady at the end of the street had passed and left her kitty behind. Even now, Mabel’s heart hurt thinking about that little lonely kitty with no one to pet and love it. And when she was struggling with her math homework at the beginning of the school year; it was making her feel so stupid and bad about herself that she just needed a little pick-me-up to get through it. Like a cup of hot chocolate or a bowl of ice-cream. Same thing.

Well she needed it now. Now when everything had fallen apart and her grunkles were in trouble and her parents didn’t believe them.

Mabel. You remember what happened last time, right? You got possessed by ghosts and had really bad hallucinations. That stuff’s not good for you.”

She remembered. She knew that. But she needed it. Just one. She was careful. She had told Dipper that three would be ok, but she never had more than one at a time. She was responsible. She knew what happened when she had too much. Ok, there was that one time when she found out that Jason Rifter had asked Megan to go to the movies instead of her, but she’d only had two then. Just two, and she had spaced them out that day. Hours apart, so really it was just one at a time, the times were just close together.   

“I just want to be happy. Just for a little while, I wanna forget how bad things are right now.” She felt Dipper take the packet from her and she wasted no time tearing into hers. The purse was pushed to the side as she pulled out the white chalky candy stick. The flavored sugar powder was always pink and always tasted the same. She licked at the candy stick and dipped it into the sugar pouch. The sugar granules looked like crystals, the light reflecting off their smooth surfaces and flashing like a disco ball. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking; it didn’t matter. One lick and she everything would feel a bit better. Nothing would really change, but she didn’t have to think about it and didn’t have to feel those feelings that made her stomach all twisty.

She heard Dipper sigh and move to sit beside her. He looked beaten. He held the unopened pack of Smile Dip in one hand and pressed the fingers of his other hand to his eyes. Waddles, who had been forgotten, curled up in the dog bed on the floor by Mable’s mattress, snorted at the aroma of sugar and waddled out to sit beside Dipper. He gave a worried oink and looked at her, cocking his head.

“Don’t you judge me. I need it.” She hissed, hunching her shoulders, and bringing the candy stick to her lips. Just one lick. She just wanted to be happy for a little while. She didn’t need to be judged by Waddles or her brother. Heck, she’d even shared with Dipper; it wasn’t as if she could eat all of it herself. She wasn’t _that_ stupid.

She was about to take that first delicious lick when she heard Dipper’s faint words. “Just promise me that we’ll get rid of it in the morning, ok? This stuff it really bad for you.” She also noticed how he didn’t put his back, instead tearing into the pack, and copying her movements. She sighed. Her brother really did care about her, and she cared about him. Fine, if it would make him feel better, then she would get rid of the Smile Dip.

“Fine. But you have to learn how to braid my hair then.” Dipper chuckled, pulling the sugar covered candy stick out of his own pouch. “Don’t I already brush your hair sometimes?” Mabel smiled and snuggled into her brother’s side. “Yeah, but you stink at braiding. They always fall out or a super lumpy and uneven.” She took her first lick of sugar happiness. The flavor sent a sharp spike from her tongue to her the back of her head. It was great, if a little intense at first.

“It’s not my fault you have so much hair.” Dipper groused, half teasing his sister before taking his own lick. He gaged a little at the intense flavor, drawing the candy stick away from him and stifle a cough. “Heehee, lightweight.”

They both giggled together, taking slow licks from the powdered candy, and enjoying the rush of endorphins that came with it.

They didn’t see the text message from Ford until the morning.

_ On route to Bermuda Triangle. Stan’s body and I are unharmed. _


	12. Night Terrors and Mind Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's mind wanders, Ford has night terrors and does experiments, and Stan fails at magic.
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNING!! Ford has a very disturbing dream in this one that includes very specific and very graphic violence to both Dipper and Mabel. It will be sectioned off via *~*TW*~* so if you want or need to skip it, please do.
> 
> Also a quick note, this is likely the only type of warning I will include. I don’t read/write sexual violence or sex with minors. This is probably the worst I will get. I will include any major warnings as things go. Please read responsibly.
> 
> Sorry for deleting your comments. I did save them offline. But I wanted to start fresh. I did edit Chp 10 and 11 but I didn't post them. I will post them on Tumblr, however, with the designation "EDIT".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Below is a link to my tumlr; its a brief video on my notes and stuff for this series. I flip through things quick, but there are a LOT of spoilers for the series. Call it an apology for me having an immature freak out. Seriously, like major spoilers for the series. Its up to you if you watch it. Oh, and there's no sound.  
> http://rmjagonshi.tumblr.com/post/173527420422/so-i-posted-this-on-my-fb-to-host-this-is-a-breif  
> Oh, none of the pictures are mine, I'm just using them as references. The messy scribbles are mine though.

They’d been at sea for a month. The days were blurring together and everything was so God damn boring! They were south of the Isle of Bermuda, well within the bounds of the triangle. It made Stanford feel safe. Stan really didn’t know why, as there _wasn’t_ a Bermuda Triangle. The whole thing was a myth he himself had spread. Why do you think it was a triangle? It was funny how an arbitrary nudge at something supernatural caused whole nations to avoid an area, or use it as a tactical advantage in war. The number of ships and planes that went missing here wasn’t any higher than the number that went missing anywhere else. There was more _traffic_ here, sure. But that was it. It was funny before, how easy humans got scared of nothing. Now it was just boring. Very, very boring.

Stan was slumped over the railing of the bow deck, just staring at the water. If he wanted to concentrate, he could ‘see’ all the way to the bottom to watch tiny little particles of organic material dance around on micro currents before falling to the bottom. Ford had sure picked a desolate area too, there weren’t any fish or wired creatures to look at even. He wanted to cry. Crying wouldn’t _do_ anything, but it might feel better. Or he could laugh. Or scream…or just _anything_ to help him deal with this. It had been a whole month since he had lost his best friend.

He guessed he should feel better. After all, he wasn’t being forced to spend his days and nights locked in the engine room. Being able to sleep on an actual mattress and walk around had done wonders for his back.   

*~*

It started out small. Allowing Stan longer stays out when taking care of his bodily needs. After the first time, Ford had allowed him the privacy of taking care of himself in the bathroom. He still paced back and forth in front of the door with that damn pistol drawn, yelling at him when he took too long. One time he had actually yanked open the door to Stan standing up, pants around his ankles and stood there watching him. Not even Stan’s feeble joke about Ford wanting a show would make his brother leave. All Stan could do was get dressed and wash his hands before Ford was escorting him back to his jail cell. No ropes anymore; there wasn’t a need. Stan wasn’t fighting back. What was the point?

All the sharp objects were removed from the bathroom after that. No razors, electrical cords, cleaning supplies, or medication. It was all moved by his next visit. He was allowed to sit in the galley to drink his green gloop not long after. Ford wasn’t drugging him anymore. Again, what was the point. But it still tasted like something coughed up by an herbivore and lightly flavored with vanilla. It certainly made his gut _very_ regular. He could set his damn clock by his bowl movements.     

A brief glance around the galley told Stan that all the cupboards were tied or bolted shut. He’s not surprised. It seemed Ford was paranoid enough to think that he would try to craft a weapon out of the odds and ends he could find. He wasn’t going to try and explain that he didn’t need to construct a weapon, he could just pull one out of thin air. Or…he could in theory; in practice he had gotten a rubber duck when he’d tried to make a crossbow. He was really rusty. It got worse when the duck had exploded into three tarantulas the size of his hand and he flew, screaming, up to the main cabin. Ford had used a broom to usher them into a bucket and then off the side of the boat.  

That night Ford given him a pillow and a blanket. Stan had just finished his every-other-day shower, looking over his shoulder every other second to check for giant spiders, and found the galley empty. Ford usually parked himself in front of the door waiting for Stan to finish, but he was nowhere in sight.

Edging to the bulkhead and peering around the frame, Stan saw Ford kneeling and spreading out a blanket and pillow on the floor. Stan cleared his throat and stood far enough away from his brother so as not to startle him. Ford’s head snapped up and leveled an annoyed gaze laced with anxiety at Stan.

“You got done quick.”

“Well, ya know, there was this one movie that came out in the nineties about killer spiders that came out of the shower drains and…well…” He didn’t think he needed to finish. Ford knew of his childhood fear of spiders. It was one of the things that their father ragged on him about. “Only girls are afraid of bugs. Are you a girl?” There was never a good answer for that. If Stan said ‘yes’, Filbrick would threaten to send him to school in a dress. If he said no, then Filbrick would make him pick up the spider with his bare hands and take care of it. He learned to pretend not to see them and discreetly ask Ford to deal with them.

Ford didn’t answer, he just stood, leaving the blankets and pillow behind, and brushing past Stan before closing and sealing the bulkhead. The slight extra padding did nothing for his back, but he was still grateful for the gesture. They didn’t talk at all really. Stan had tried to explain things, but Ford would refuse to listen. Ford would cut him off, saying things like, “there is nothing you can do to break me,” and “I’m done falling for your tricks,” and “no more games.” Or something. He would never let Stan finish, always talking over him to the point where Stan had lost his patience and a pink ribbon had appeared and tied itself around Ford’s mouth, looping a fancy little bow behind his head.

“For fuck sake, Sixer! Let me talk!” The problem was Stan had not thought to bind Ford’s hands at all. He found himself restrained with the same ribbon back in the engine room faster than he could blink.         

Finally, the night came when Ford just didn’t care anymore and let Stan have run of the ship. Stan wished it had been under different circumstances. Ford had had a night terror; a bad one. Stan was almost used to waking up to Ford’s shouts and screams in the middle of the night, sound auditable even through the thick steel bulkhead. There was nothing he could do, though. After the first night, Ford had not visited him and had limited their physical contact to the bare minimum. Ford’s night terrors continued almost every night. The deep bruises under his eyes attested to that. But this was worse. His brother sounded like he as in pain. Like someone was killing him.

Stan didn’t know why it had never occurred to him to try before, but he spared hardly a thought before practically ripping the bulkhead from its frame and charging to the bedroom.

Ford was shrieking, arms flailing and punching at an unseen opponent. He was on the floor, tanged in the blankets, and kicking frantically and getting nowhere. Stan knelt and scooped Ford up and into him arms, into his lap and cradled him against his chest. The blanket was still wrapped around Ford’s torso and legs, mildly retraining him.  

“Stanford, come on. You’re ok. You’re on the Stan O’War. I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be ok. I promise.” Stan rocked back and forth slowly as Ford beat at his chest and shoulders, screaming and crying the whole time. With no alternative, Stan cradled the back of Ford’s neck and brushed his lips against Ford’s brow, the cool blue flames washing over his brother and calming him as Stan entered Ford’s mind.    

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*TW*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There was blood. So much blood. He wasn’t even sure that two human bodies could produce that much. There were pools of it, running like water from the two mangled forms he couldn’t bear to look at. He didn’t need to though. He knew what had happened.

Bill had killed them. Hand torn them asunder. Mabel had thought it was a game; Bill was wearing her Grunkle Stan’s face after all. She had approached him without fear when he called. She was smiling, eager to spend time with him. She even reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck when he bent over. She loved him. She had no reason to think he would do anything.

Stanford was frozen. His movements not his own. Dipper, the poor boy, had an arm wrapped around Stanford’s leg, face pressed into the fabric of his sweater. They had just gotten home. The kids didn’t know. They were in danger, but Stanford couldn’t warn them. His mouth wasn’t in his control.

Stanford could only watch as Mabel was set down by Bill in Stan’s body. With a smile on his face, he took her hand and with no effort at all, crushed it. She screamed as the bones of her hand turned to splinters peeking out from the jelly her flesh had turned into. Dipper had jolted at his sister’s scream and turned to help, but he was held fast by a hand on his arm. A six-fingered hand. Stanford wanted to scream himself. But he found he could do nothing but smile as his grip on Dipper’s arm prevented him from running to help his sister. Stanford felt himself bend down and pull Dipper to him; turning him to face Bill and Mabel and pinning his arms behind his back. Stanford was going to make Dipper watch. It was what Bill wanted. And what Bill wanted, Stanford delivered.

Mabel was desperately trying to pull herself away from Bill. His body now taking on his more iconic form of a yellow triangle. Stan’s body was shed like a carapace, split open from neck to groin like a dressed deer. His intestines in shredded, ropy piles spread out on the grass, his ribcage broken and pulled wide, protruding slightly from his body. Stan was dead. Had been dead. Bill had taken him over the moment Stanford had erased Stan’s mind.

Stan was lost, but Mabel and Dipper could still escape. But he wasn’t in control anymore. Bill was. And Bill wanted revenge.

Mabel was pleading now, begging Stanford or Dipper for help. She tried to use the blood seeping from her hand as a lubricant to break Bill’s grip, but his other hand came down on her shoulder. It took so little time, but every second seemed to pass by like minutes. Bill pushed her shoulder down while bringing her forearms up and away from her body. An efficient twist of her upper arm away from her body and her arm was gone. White bone shimmering in the sun nestled in a ring of stringy red tendrils.

Dipper was struggling even harder now. Screaming for help, and begging Stan to stop. But Stan was gone, couldn’t the boy see that. It was just Bill now.

But Dipper wouldn’t be struggling for long. Stanford had a knife in his hand, not caring that it materialized out of nothing. It was a gift from Bill after all. He used his free hand to bring the knife across the boy’s stomach. It was sharp. Sharp enough to slice through skin, adipose tissue, and muscle in one go. He felt the hot blood and gore fall over his arm and the boy’s screams were cut short.

His eyes found Bill’s and he felt a shiver of pride run down his spine at Bill’s grin.

He was a good boy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*TW*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan was sure the dream continued, but he couldn’t watch anymore. He pulled himself out and back into his own mind in time to feel Ford clutch at his undershirt and cry helplessly. Ford was not coping well with this one. Stan wasn’t going to do well either. By some miracle, he held back an instinct to purge the bile rising in his esophagus. Holy Hell. He would shoot himself and throw what’s left off a cliff before he would even _think_ of doing that. Of hurting the kids. God. Even if he wanted to, (and he did remember wanting to) he wouldn’t.   

“Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Please don’t hurt them. I’ll do whatever you want. Please.” Ford’s voice was manic. Stan, in all his existence and all his experience with Stanford, had never heard his brother sound like this. Not even the fearamid was comparable. Stan pulled his brother close, doing his best to quell the shivers wracking Ford’s body.

“I won’t. God, never. Never, Stanford. Never. Shhhh. God, no. They’re ok. They’re both at home. You can call them. They’d love to hear from you. We can stay here. We can stay here floating forever if you need. It’s ok. Whatever you want. I’ll do it. Anything you need. I promise. They’re safe. You’re safe. I’m safe. Shhhh.”

Stan rubbed calming circles of cool blue flames into Ford’s back. Fingers tracing gently on old scars and old tattoos. There were several small scars, almost claw marks, on Ford’s back and sides. A few too many close calls with beasts in the multiverse. Across Sixer’s back was the zodiac circle; spread between his shoulder blades. The depiction of ~~Stan’s~~ Bill’s eye was cut diagonally and a ward was carved into the skin overtop the triangle. The underside of Ford’s left arm was burned, likely acid, and the scar stretched across the tricep. There was a stab wound on Ford’s right hip; thankfully the blade had bounced off his iliac crest and there was little real damage. Stan’s fingers traced over the ‘All Star’ tattoo on Ford’s neck, fighting back an inappropriate grin. Snortlog had convinced Ford to get it after they caught Ford humming the song. It was quite popular in the multiverse.

There was a projectile wound in his upper abdomen. A brief pass with his fingers told Stan that it had started to splinter and had caused the star shaped exit wound on Ford’s back. It had been infected. Stan was thankful that the bullet had passed through Ford’s gall bladder and part of his liver, but had missed everything else; maybe a nick on his floating ribs. If Stan ever met the being that saved his brother, he would shake the things tentacled hand before buying it a drink.

It had been so long since he had been able to touch Ford like this. Just hold him, let his hands explore with no concerns. They’d only shared a single kiss as teens. Just one. And Ford had initiated. They had been watching ‘The Duke’s Mistress’ on television the night their parents had gone out. Ma had caught them. Stan had been so ashamed; Pops had tried beating all the ‘girly’ tendencies out of Stan, but it hadn’t worked.

~*~Tangent, can be skipped~*~

Stan had confided in Ford that he wanted to kiss a guy. They had seen a couple on the beach one night a week before that had kissed, thinking they were alone. Stan and Ford had seen them, and Stan had been awestruck. He stared, mind blank, until Ford had pulled him back to reality and chastised him for staring. The idea of kissing a guy had filled Stan’s head for days after. Of what it might feel like, taste like. It didn’t help that the generic man Stan had imagined had started to look more and more like his brother.

Stan had told his brother what had been on his mind while they watched the film. Ford had been pretending to study physics nd snaking absently on popcorn when Stan had asked out of the blue, “So, what would you do if I wanted to kiss a guy?”

Ford had not reacted right away, likely trying to process what Stan had said. Stan himself was trying to think of a way to turn the thing into a big joke while staring intently at the screen and avoiding eye contact. He regretted asking, but sometimes his mouth did not listen to his brain and it usually got him into a lot of trouble.

“I don’t know, should I do something?” Stan could feel Ford staring at him. It made that fluttering feeling start up in his stomach. Stan had refused to admit why that was. He curled in on himself a bit, pillows bunched up behind him and back towards the front door. “I guess, not. I just thought you might, I dunno, not like it. So, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Wait, wait, you want to kiss a guy, but if _I_ disapproved, you would pass it up if given the chance?”

Stan just nodded, eyes still glued to the screen. The Duke was speaking very politely and properly to the maid with whom he was having an affair.

“So, you haven’t done it?”

Stan turned his head to Ford, blinking.

“Haven’t done what?” Stan frowned, uncurling slightly now that he knew Ford wasn’t going to throw his text book at him.

“Kissed a guy.” Ford had placed his book on the cushion between them.

“Oh, no. And I don’t really expect to, I just, I just wanted to know if you would be ok with it if I did ever. Not that I would.” Stan brought his hands up defensively.

They had sat in silence for a few minutes; Stan turning his attention back to the film and Ford, he assumed, going back to his book. Stan jumped and nearly spilled his soda when Ford spoke next.

“Why don’t you expect to?” Stan steadied the can before answering. What was he supposed to say? Why didn’t Ford know? He was a guy, a man, a _Pines_ man. He couldn’t kiss a guy and get away with it. Some guys could, sure, but not him. Not with Pops being the way he was. He had a reputation to keep, a status to adhere to. Ford did too, but Ford was so damn smart, he could probably marry a guy and still get away with it. Well, maybe not marry, but still; Ford could get away with a hell of a lot more than Stan could.

“Well, ya know what people would say. And Pops would probably kick me out if I ever tried.” Stan kicked his socked foot, the threadbare fabric catching on the old hardwood floor. “Still would like to try though.” His words were whispered, not really expecting Ford to hear. Stan felt his lips tingling as his brain involuntarily pulled out his stupid fantasy again.

“I could kiss you, if you wanted. I’ve never had the opportunity before, either.”

Stan just stared ahead, not daring to look over at his brother. What was Ford saying? Ford didn’t want to kiss a guy. Did he? He was interested in Cathy, right? Sixer had talked endlessly about how pretty she was and how auburn-haired people were rare and ridiculed and how they would be a perfect match. Not that it mattered, Stan didn’t care if Ford wanted to kiss a guy. But Ford wanting to kiss him? That was…not what he should want. They were brothers. It was weird. It was…making Stan face heat up.  

But Sixer was into weird things. The shrunken head he brought into show-and-tell all those years ago still sat on the self in their room. And it didn’t help that Stan wanted to. Had wanted to do _something_ with Ford before he even knew what the possibilities were. He loved hugging his brother, cuddling on the couch and in Fort Stan. Sleep overs on the Stan O’War were the best. They got to cuddle together and read, and talk about all the things they couldn’t talk about anywhere else. His mouth moved before his brain had caught up.

“OK.”

Ford had started leaning before the word was out of his mouth. Stan leaned back into the arm of the couch instinctively, but Ford followed him. His brother was hovering over him, bracing himself against Stan’s chest. Stan could feel the pressure from all six fingers, the grease from the popcorn soaking into Stan’s thin t-shirt. Stan had gripped the back of the couch. He panted like he had jogged up two flights of stairs. He could smell the butter and popcorn on Ford’s breath. He wondered what his breath smelled like and if it was bothering Ford. He swallowed nervously as Ford ran the fingers of his other hand through Stan’s hair and leaned down. Ford’s lips were soft, way softer than he had imagined. He wasn’t sure when his eyes had closed, or when his free hand had come up to rest against Ford’s cheek. Their noses brushed and he felt his lips quiver with Ford’s hum. It sent a spike or arousal straight to his groin. Oh, this was bad. He shouldn’t be enjoying this. Ford was his brother, Ford was…

But their mother had come in then and had been so afraid. Stan had been so ashamed and Ford…Ford had been so God damned supportive! He comforted Stan, told him it was ok when their mother left.

Hugged him and told him that their mom hadn’t lied, that she still loved them. That Ford still loved him. That it was all going to be ok, because Stan had gotten to kiss a guy, and now he was fine. But Stan wasn’t fine. It had been so chaste, but Stan knew he was fucked. With one kiss, he had been hooked.

Stan had never gotten over wanting to kiss Ford again. And the shame gnawed at his gut until he wanted to puke. Ford, for his part, acted like nothing had happened. Like it didn’t affect him. Stan had stolen Ford’s pillow in retaliation. Hugging it to his chest and inhaling the smell. Pretending he was hugging his brother.            

~*~End Tangent~*~

It was kind of funny that he got to hold Ford again, now that so much had happened between them. Stan just quietly rubbed Ford’s bare back and pressed his lips to Ford’s scalp. Later. Everything could wait until later.  

Stanford had just clung to Stan’s shirt and cried.  

Stan spent the rest of the night burning away all but a faint impression of that dream from the both of their minds. Only the memory gun could do better. But at least they would both be able to sleep again.

Ford had eventually stopped crying, but he didn’t pull away. He just sat there, numb, and unmoving in Stan’s arms. His fingers hooked in Stan’s shirt collar and head tucked under Stan’s chin. Stan kept rubbing his back until he fell asleep, drifting off feeling Ford’s slow and even breaths.

Stan awoke sleeping alone on the floor with a note tapped to his forehead.

‘You promised. I’m holding you to it.’

*~*

And that’s how Stan found himself moping around deck during the day (when he wasn’t helping Ford with his experiments) and sleeping in his own bed at night. Ford had insisted they move the pillows; they now slept with their feet together, rather than their heads. Ford still had nightmares, but they were growing less frequent. Stan supposed that Ford laying awake at night staring at him as Stan fell asleep might have played a part in that. The first time Stan rolled over and met Ford’s eyes staring at him blankly, he was justifiably uncomfortable. When it happened every night after, he got used to it. It almost felt…intimate, laying there, watching Ford as Ford watched him; watching until his eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep.

He never tried to see into Sixer’s mind. Sometimes it happened anyway; Stan would be minding his own business and Sixer’s thoughts would be so damn loud that they would find their way into Stan’s mind. Sixer’s mind was weird. He should have remembered from before, but seeing it through a human brain was just nutty. Stanford thought in a mix of pictures and numbers with the occasional word or phrase thrown in. When he was under stress, Sixer thought entirely in math and phrases. Even if the thought couldn’t be expressed in math easily, Sixer still tried.

Stan himself, both before and after being born as a human, thought purely in pictures. Everything was given a category; everything was either rough and concave or smooth and convex. Certain feelings and memories were associated with sounds and colors, and his organization of the world in his mid was very turbulent and ephemeral. There was a reason Stan’s mindscape was a maze. It was the only way for everything to make sense.

Before, his mind had been very much like the Nightmare Realm. Very cloudy and tumultuous. Thoughts and feelings forming out of the mess of clouds, debris and dust. Piles of ideas and memories towering into the void, dropping, and collecting in puddles to rot away, to morph and twist into something ugly. Broken trees, broken buildings, crumbling mountains and bodily remains. He’d lived too long to really know everything all at once. His mind was like an old pc, linking keywords to concepts and files, and sometimes it took time to find that file. And sometimes his stupid brain would come up with things even if he didn’t want it to.

Stan sighed, drumming his fingers on the railing and swinging his legs over the side of the Stan O’War. He was hungry. Or maybe he was just bored. Boredom and hunger seemed to be the same feeling now. He should ask Sixer what he wanted for dinner. Not that Ford would actually answer him, but he should at least extend the offer.    

Under normal circumstances, after a month they’d be running out of food, but with Ford knowing his secret…well, there really wasn’t any reason to try and ignore his abilities. He was relearning a lot of what he had once taken for granted. Instinct was easiest. He was hungry, food appeared. He was craving a Pitt Cola, there it was. Ford was complaining about not picking up an empty notebook to chronicle this new development. Bam! New leather-bound journal and a set of drawing pens.

Half the time he wasn’t even trying. Not consciously. And when he did try, well…they never spoke about the duck. Once morning he had woken up with a table overflowing with lilies and white roses, forget-me-nots, and baby’s breath with a ‘Please Forgive Me” banner tacked on the wall. Ford had used the banner as a cleaning cloth for the pluming, ground up the useful flowers and dropped the rest over the side. They floated away like a tiny little biological iceberg. A balloon that said, “I’m Sorry” appeared the next morning. Neither one of them had liked that. The balloon had screamed and begged at an ear-piercing volume that Ford had shot the damn thing and burned it’s remains. Stan had been trying to keep a reign on his feelings of guilt after that. It would have been funny if it hadn’t prompted such a violent reaction.     

He spent a lot of time trying to appease Ford. Give him the things he liked. Helping him with experiments and doing his best to balance between accepting direction and anticipating what Ford was doing. Should he act like Bill, or act like himself (which was a conundrum in and of itself)? Ford seemed to be questioning that too. He would often refer to Stan by “Bill”, but would often treat him as if he was Stan…until he didn’t. It was very confusing.  

“Don’t touch that knucklehead! You’ll break it!”

“Shouldn’t you know this already, I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do!”

“Here, check this math, I don’t have time right now.”

“No, you idiot! You can’t mix those! You know this! Why are you being this way?”

“I’m so sick of jellybeans! Stop it!” That last one Stan couldn’t help. Not really. They were Ford’s favorite candy. He wanted to make Ford happy. 

Stan had eventually given up and just acted the way he was; a mix of the two personalities he had once been. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the most comfortable right now. Or was it really a mix? It was hard to tell now. His memories were intermixed and overlapped and muddled together it was hard sometimes to pick out what were memories from Bill and what was from Stan.

He loved Stanford, that much seemed the same no matter what. His one constant. He had promised Sixer anything, anything he needed to feel safe. Anything he needed to feel that the kids were safe. Sixer had asked Stan to perform magic for him, and Stan obliged. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn’t work the way he wanted it to. Sometimes he set his own hair on fire and it grew back in a few hours. Other times he created a miniature raincloud that followed Sixer around dropping jellybean raindrops that tasted like rust water. That had actually gotten a chuckle out of Ford, who said the little candies reminded him of the water back in New Jersey; the water ad always had a rusty taste to it.   

“Bill, get down here. I need more samples.” Stan heard Ford call from the main cabin. Stan had given up trying to correct Sixer; Ford was convinced he was Bill…and he wasn’t exactly wrong. But Stan wasn’t going to hurt him, even if he was subjected to experiments.   

That was what was happening now. Experiments. Experiments to see how far Stan’s magic went. It involved a lot more pain than he expected.

“OW!”

“Oh, shut up. You said pain was hilarious remember?”

“Yeah, but not anymore!”

What was the point in denying anything; Ford knew who he was, used to be. What he needed to focus on now was convincing his brother that he was still the man he was when this whole mess started. Yes, his past was Bill Cipher, but he had lived a whole separate life since then. He was Stanley Pines now. Well, sort of. He was more Stanley Pines than he was Bill Cipher. You can’t still be the same person after remembering all the things Bill Cipher had ever done. At least, not all at once. He was Stanley Pines, but with wat more experience than he should be allowed to have.

But what did it matter. His bother didn’t believe that. And he knew Ford had told the kids. Mable hadn’t texted him once since the night he’d screwed things up. Ford’s phone on the other hand had been blowing up. Constantly buzzing and ringing and his voicemail was full, his text inbox was full; he’d resorted to transcribing the texts in the journal as records.

He’d once tried to send Mabel a text saying he was sorry, and that he loved her. Ford confiscated his phone immediately after that. Ford told him Dipper had sent him a text asking Stan to stop. “He said you’re scaring her. If there is any bit of Stan left in there, if you love her, stop.”

He didn’t try again.

Sixer had taken pictures of him doing random things. Drinking his stupid herbivore vomit, holding things for Sixer, sleeping, and brushing his teeth. He assumed that Sixer was sending the kids updated on their status. Showing the kids that he was fine.

He even heard their voices. Sixer had video chatted with them a few days after he had let Stan out of the engine room. Stan had sat at the bottom of the stairs, turning up the dial on his hearing aid to catch their voices, while Sixer sat in the main cabin.

“Great Uncle Ford, Are you ok?” “Is Grunkle Stan ok?” “Is it really Bill?” “But in the pictures you sent, his eyes aren’t yellow.” “He’s acting like Stan.” “But he’s not, Mabel. You saw that video of him making a soda appear.” “Maybe Stan was a magician at some point.” “Stan can’t even do that simple coin trick!” “I refuse to believe my Grunkle Stan is a bad guy!”

Hearing Mabel defend him made his heart soar. God, he wanted to hug her. He wanted to hug them both. Especially when he heard Mason’s hesitant response, “He doesn’t seem to be possessed. Grunkle Ford, are you sure? Are you really, _really_ sure?” Ford’s response grabbed tight to his guts and twisted.    

“I don’t know Dipper. I want to believe him, but that’s Bill’s strength. He is a master manipulator, and I’ve been fooled by him before.”

“Can you tell him…we still love him. Please?”

“You just did, probably. He’s likely listening.”

Stan grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. He ignored the tears trailing down his face.


	13. Lost Love and Attempted Fratricide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford realizes that as depraved as it is, he still loves Bill. And now that Bill looks so much like Stan, he knows he will break. Stan, meanwhile, endures experimentation and does his best to please Ford with his magic.

Stanford Pines was sat in the main cabin of the Stan O’War noting down another tidbit from some internet blog discussing daemonic possession. He really didn’t think that force-feeding ~~Stan~~ Bill purified salt and vinegar would really do anything, but at this rate, anything might be possible. And even if it didn’t work, the thought of Bill gaging and choking on a spoonful of salt and vinegar brought him a sort of perverted pleasure.    

It was sick and wrong, and he hated it, but at the same time, he got a depraved rush every time he tried something new. He knew he was hurting his brother’s body, and if he dwelt on that, he would stagnate. He would sit and dwell and spiral into an ever darker and darker pit.

Stanford had seen it, had seen it with his own eyes that Stan was…gone. Or going. Why hadn’t he done anything? Why did he not realize what was wrong? Why did he deny it? Why did he pretend that everything was ok? Did a part of him want it?

The crypt. It was fitting, wasn't it? Stan had looked at him and Stanford had seen one beautiful caramel brown, cataract filled eye, and one sickly pale yellow. Had Stan been fighting it? Had he seen the last of his brother looking out at him before Bill…

Stanford pushed the thought down. There was nothing to be done now. And there was still a chance to knock Bill from Stan’s body. He just needed to find the right trigger, the right mechanism. He hadn’t dared try to enter Bill’s mind. He didn’t know if his defenses were resilient enough to defend against Bill’s manipulation. He had already succumbed to Bill’s mind games. He needed to find a way to bring his brother back.  

Yes, a part of him hurt when he hurt his brother’s body. But another part reveled in that fact that he got to hurt Bill. Because Bill was in there, Bill was in control. Bill felt it, had to experience it. And Bill deserved it. Deserved it and so much more. But nothing so far had broken Bill’s grasp.

Even when he slept, Bill seemed to have complete and utter control over Stan’s body. It was so far removed from all of his experiences with Bill and possession, Stanford was scrambling for answers. He had scoured the internet when he could, but there was nothing describing daemonic possession and its characteristics. Well, nothing scientific anyway. Stanford had come across innumerable sites and blogs and videos and religious organizations that talked about the paranormal and daemons and spirits and what-have-yous, but nothing of substance.

There was only so much he could hypothesize on given his limited knowledge on the subject. There were several physicists and phycologists that specialized in astral projection and dream theory, but without the aid of a portal, he couldn’t even hope to get a message to anyone.

It didn’t help that he had let himself be weak…again. He had survived thirty years adrift in more often than not hostile worlds. He could handle a nightmare or two. But that last one, God, that last one had been so real. He knew the difference, most of the time, between a dream his own mind had constructed from recent thoughts and feelings, and one that tapped into his mindscape, where they were much stronger and more…real.

He had been trapped in his head that night. Unable to receive sensory input beyond the images his mind had created for him. He had screamed. He must have, that was the only rationale he had for ~~Stan~~ Bill to have come for him. The lock on the engine room bulkhead was beyond repair. Not that it mattered; ~~Stan~~ Bill had gotten through with ease so what was the point in locking him up? For Stanford’s own comfort? Why? It was clear that ~~Stan~~ Bill was just placating him. Luring him in.

That night. He remembered the dream…if only just. He remembered feeling piercing terror through to his core, but he didn’t feel that way anymore. When thinking of it now, he felt…not nothing, because he did feel something, but it was unclear exactly. Like it was just a fact, like it was just something that had happened, and he had moved on.

Stanford prided himself on his ability to separate himself from his emotions when the situation called for it. He had learned this skill in his youth, and had honed it in his travels. To be in control of one’s emotions, to look at a problem with clinical detachment. It was liberating. But this was his family. And he _remembered_ feelings associated with seeing his family torn asunder. He didn’t feel them now, and it was all the more reason to be warry of Bill.

Bill had changed him. Changed how he viewed something, changed how he felt about the dream.

It didn’t matter now. Bill would never leave this boat. They would sit in this forgotten and paranormal ridden sector of ocean forever, or until something sunk their tiny craft, whichever came first. ~~Stan~~ Bill had promised, and Stanford would ensure it. They would stay here far away from people. Bill would stagnate here, power unrefined and out of his control, unable to do anything except reside in a body of his last victim. And Stanford would stay here with him, forever.

Even if that meant _he_ was the one imprisoned.

Imprisoned in his own head, a cell of his own making, a warden he willingly let control him once. A muse that once held the key to everything he ever desired. A master that once held Stanford in the palm of his hand, a willing and eager puppet. A being he once loved. Why could he just let go?

It had almost broken him that night, lying in Stan’s arms, knowing that Stan was no longer there. Knowing that it was Bill, knowing that Bill was the one trying to comfort him, the one shushing him, the once caressing his back. But he felt and sounded and _smelled_ so like Stan. He let himself be fooled. Let himself just pretend that everything was normal. That Stan was still himself; that his brother and Bill were one and the same.

But that was such a dangerous road to travel. It was a slippery slope, and Stanford knew it. Knew how that would end. He had seen it, hadn’t he? It had burned itself into his mind, even if Bill had dulled its initial punch. He wouldn’t forget. But he knew he was not the insurmountable stone he claimed himself to be. He was weak. So utterly weak.

And being with Bill felt so cathartic. He could be directed, he wasn’t expected to be the one with all the answers. He didn’t have to be the one everyone depended on. He could just…be. Just be held, be small (relatively speaking), be taken care of. It reminded him of the times Stan had held him, shielded him from the onslaught of hate and physical abuse. The time Stan had taken a punch, a beating for him; Crampelter and their father. The time Stan had held his hands without thinking, without being startled at the extra digit. 

Bill had reminded Stanford so much of his brother as time went on. Bill hadn’t treated him like a freak, hadn’t been put off by his intelligence, had treated Stanford like he mattered. Like he was loved. Like Stan had loved him.

They had been in the mindscape, just idling away the afternoon discussing politics and philosophy and mathematics. Stanford’s body in the physical realm sat meditating in his study while his mind danced around in the swirling void of the mindscape with his mentor.

Without realizing it, as they spoke, Stanford had drifted closer to the manifestation of Bill, enraptured by Bill’s voice. It felt so natural to him, to reach out and stroke one of Bill’s edges, to run his fingers over Bill’s surface and tug on the bow tie.

“Um…” Bill had noticed his presence, but Stanford was too lost in his own fantasy to do much more than smile.

He had enveloped the triangle in his arms, pressing Bill to his chest and resting his cheek against the thin side. He had felt the ever present top hat float off. It was one of the only times Stanford remembered ever surprising Bill. Bill had sat dumbfounded for a few seconds, arms held awkwardly to the sides, before pushing against Stanford’s chest and floating a few feet away.  

“Whoa, hey there big guy, what’s with the touchy-feely business?”

Stanford hadn’t known what to say then. What do you say to someone you hugged without consent? Stanford had held tight to himself, embarrassed about what he’d done. It was high school all over again; he was tripping over himself and being awkward and, God, what did Bill think of him now? Would he leave? Would Bill stop helping him? Would he think Stanford was a waste of time? He didn’t care if Bill had decided to give up on the project, but he didn’t think he could handle it if Bill left him. He wasn't even sure if Bill was real yet, or just a manifestation of is insanity and loneliness. But if Bill left…

“I didn’t mean, I just, I…” He couldn’t even get the words out. God, he was a fool. Useless and pathetic.

Bill had floated up to his side, and placed a three-fingered hand on his shoulder. He knew it was supposed to be comforting, but, it felt like condemnation. It stung just as much as…   

“Let’s just keep this…professional, ok?” Bill awkwardly patted his shoulder and floated back to his original position across the slowly bobbing coffee table. Stanford just hid his face, wiping his hand over his eyes and under his glasses.

“I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

Was he so in need of affection he would latch onto the nearest being for it?

Maybe he should just pay someone. Pay someone for their company. He didn’t want sex, but it would do, and some prostitutes would even give the “girlfriend” experience for extra. He could claim the lost money on “personal health and mental wellbeing” on his next cost report to his benefactors. It rankled his skin and made his hair stand on end to think of going to such lows, but he desperately needed something. Just a hug, that was all he wanted.

“You don’t need to do that, I’m sure there’s someone in town you could…what’s the word? Copulate with? For free even. I could scope one out for you. There’s a female at the diner that seems to like you.”

Stanford cringed. They were in his mind, nothing would be hidden from Bill here. Nothing he thought was private until Bill left. Before it hadn’t been an issue, he was too wrapped up in discoveries to even think about how lonely he was. He guessed he only realized it now because Bill was his ever-constant companion, but they could only talk. Bill had no real form, and thus always seemed so absent. Like a ghost. Except ghosts were annoying; Bill was brilliant, and wonderful and…he had a problem. Stanford sighed.

Bill just seemed to take it all in. Quiet and unfazed by the tumultuous flow of thoughts and affection from Stanford’s mind. Bill rubbed at the underside of his eye, lids pouting like pert and full lips. He needed to stop. Bill hummed, smiling at Stanford’s new thoughts. Stanford closed his eyes in shame.

“Hey IQ, how about this?” Without stopping to explain, Bill grew from a size maybe two thirds of Stanford’s form to one that towered above him. By the time Bill stopped and said with a triumphant, “Ta-da”, Stanford could have been a stuffed animal or a small cat to Bill.

Bill picked him up in both hands, palms pressed under his arms, and lifted him to float near a spot beside Bill’s bowtie. Bill reclined, resting his hands behind his form and crossed his legs where the knee joint would be; Stanford being pulled with the force of it to kneel on Bill’s form. The relaxed posture brought forth memories of finding his brother on the Stan O’War in the same position. Stanford couldn’t help himself. He did what he had done with Stan; he curled up on his side and huddled in close to the body beneath him. Bill was warm, and surprisingly not as hard as Stanford expected him to be. Bill’s surface had some give to it, like an old and familiar chair, and it seemed to cradle him.

He felt so safe, just as he did with Stan. Arms wrapped around him, protected, safe.  

“You humans are so strange with your incessant need to touch.”    

Looking back on it now, with the hindsight of knowing what Bill was going to do, it was so pitiful that he craved Bill so much. Stanford had sought out any affection the daemon would give, desperate and needy. In his subconscious, Bill had replaced Stan as his protector, he could see that now. Touch starved, lonely and in helpless need of a protector, a guardian, someone to make him feel small. It was how it started, but not where it ended. He fell hard, hopeless and wretchedly. He had loved Bill. Still loved him.

And he didn’t know _why_.

Bill taking Stan’s face, Stan’s touch, Stan’s smell…it was too much. Stanford was not going to dwell on why Bill looking like Stan made it worse; that lead down a dark path, darker yet than any road he had ever traveled. He thought he’d crushed those feelings years ago. Apparently, they had laid in wait for the most opportune moment. He knew he would break; it was only a matter of when.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The experiments never seemed to end. It started with what kinds of objects he could form on command. Which was really, really hard. It shouldn’t have been, because food and drinks and things like toothpaste and shampoo were easy; they came almost without thinking.

Random things were the hardest. “Bill make a bonsai tree.” “Bill, I need a set of scales.” “Make me a sample of gallium.” Nothing ever came out the way it should have. The ‘scales’, instead of something useful, became a pile of fish and reptile scales. When he tried again, Stan’s hands were covered in a thick layer of calcium and magnesium like the hard water scale back in Gravity Falls.

Gallium had, for some bizarre reason, become a guillotine. It was fine though, the blade was made of rubber and giggled like a small child when it tried to chop your head or arm off. It even squirted out raspberry jam with a squeal of delight “You’re dead now, yay!” The jam wasn’t bad and was really great on toast, but pretending your hand had been cut off and then scraping it off your arm onto toast just to eat it was far too complicated to bother with. It was a shame.

The only thing that was anywhere near what Ford had asked for was the bonsai tree. It was more trunk and branches than leaves; there was a small spattering of twigs and leaves growing out of the top of it, with two branches spreading out from the sides like little arms. At first, Stan thought he had finally done something right. He grinned at the tiny little tree in the blue terra cotta pot like he’d grinned at the model car he’d gotten for their 10th birthday.

He was so excited to show Sixer, presenting it with both hands and face split wide revealing his dentures. Ford had bent slightly to inspect the tree, adjusting his glasses dismissively (Stan didn’t care, he’d gotten it right this time!), as if to critique the form of the tree or something when it moved. The damn tree moved. It opened two dark eyes under the smattering of greenery and bobbed back and forth like it was dancing.

Ford had said nothing, just pressed his lips together and looked up at Stan with a look that made Stan want to pout. They’d put the thing in the main cabin where it could get sun and Stan made sure to water it daily.

Ford named it Herman. Herman liked music and would dance to any music played for it. It also liked company and would make tiny squawking sounds when they hadn’t paid enough attention to it. Stan found himself passing tiny objects back and forth with Herman when he was bored. It seemed to be the tree’s favorite game.

When object manifestation had failed, Ford had moved onto pain experiments. Poking and prodding with varying degrees of pressure and gradually sharper and sharper objects. First a pencil eraser lightly tapped against his arm. Then the point of the pencil until the blunt carbon had left a sizable dent in his skin. Then tweezers and nail clippers cutting away small sections of his epidermis with minor blood flow. They had gradually moved onto more involved injuries.

He had sustained physical damage such as a broken nose, various lacerations, and a knife through his hand with various control of his magic. Minor damage seemed to require his active input, so Ford had moved onto more severe measures. While Ford didn’t need to drug him anymore, the sedative was no longer working. Additional amounts should have resulted in complete autonomous bodily function shut down after twelve hours. Stan regained consciousness after six and showed no signs of damage. Ford had stepped up his game to poisons, but had not had the guts to actually just shoot him already. If Stan were being honest, he didn’t even think _that_ would do him in. Not really.

They were on the main deck of the Stan O’War as evening fell. It was cool, somewhere in the low sixties, and definitely warmer than anywhere in Oregon in the middle of December. Stan was just trying to enjoy the clam breeze and gentle waves rocking the ship. He was in that blissful intermediate stage of sleep and awake where his mind wandered and came up with weird and nonsensical ideas that were lost as quickly as they came. He snorted and jerked awake when Ford stepped out of the open cabin door.  

“I knew. You know.” Stan blinked at the non-sequitur. His mind searching for something that made sense. Sixer knew a lot of things. Like how Stan was still physically human and still had distinct pain response, and that Stan was the one that taught Herman how to throw wads of paper at Ford’s head. Knew what? Knew… 

“What?” His voice was rough from coughing. His throat still itchy from the poison Ford had forced him to drink. He had really thought he was gonna die then. But his magic made him vomit it out as a solid piece of ice; his body was sweating out the remainder. Stan was shirtless and slumped over the railing trying to cool off as his body and magic fought with the residual poison.

Stan should be mad that his brother tried to kill him, but they both knew it was a long shot that it would work anyway. He was just tired. And hot. And Ford looked really good in the evening light. The sun was reflecting off his skin and making him glow. His hair looked like glistening silver and half of his face lovingly draped in shadow; Stan wanted to take a picture, but he didn’t think he had the energy to paint right now. Wait, what?

“I knew, that…that something was wrong.” Ford stood in front of the cabin door where he had finished writing the results from his latest murder attempt. By now they were both curious as to what Stan was immune to. It seemed that while he had little control over manifesting objects, his powers of healing were in perfect form.

He’d even had an accident where the fish he was filleting kept healing with every cut and had eventually started flopping around. It was flopping so violently, it ended up on the floor of the galley, where it likely died due to blunt force trauma. When Stan had tried to pick it up, it came back to life and started squirming again. He had spent far too much time trying and failing to get the fish to stop moving, to stop resurrecting, to just be _food_ , that Ford had taken the poor thing from him and thrown it overboard. Stan made hamburgers for dinner with the ground beef that appeared on the counter. In fear of suddenly having a live fish on his plate, Ford had forbidden them from having fish for dinner thereafter. Or anything that wasn’t completely and fully processed.

Stan’s mind snapped back to more pressing matters when Ford kicked at the bait bucket.    

Ford knew. When? How? Why hadn’t this come up before? 

“When?” Stan was incredulous. When had he…? Oh no. 

“The draugr.” Damn it!

“What?” _Please be something else._

Ford was exasperated. He gestured wildly, pulling at his own hair, and pacing in the small area allotted by the deck.

“Your eye. You looked into my eyes and I saw one brown and one yellow. You read an ancient language even _I_ didn’t know. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Like you just had accumulated weird bits of knowledge during our time apart. I told myself it didn’t matter. But it does and I just…I can’t handle this!”

Ford crumpled, dropping down to the deck on his knees, hunched and covering his eyes. Stan could see wet streaks running down his cheeks. It hurt to see his Sixer like this. It never used to, not really. He used to love it when Sixer responded to him, would show emotions, would make all those delicious noises for him. Moaning, laughing, screaming, delighted squeals, sighs, whimpers, all the beautiful soundtrack to his little Sixer. 

His favorite had been when Sixer had tried so hard not to scream, so hard to not make a noise, and then he broke. It would be so quiet at first, just a little gasp, an aborted moan through gritted teeth, sound leaking out in rivulets between Sixer’s enamel and dancing in the air to his ears. Music, the sweetest music he had ever heard; it made his amorphous insides dance every time he heard Sixer’s voice. There was something about it; something so primal that even he, who had lived for literally millions of years, couldn’t understand. It had made him angry at first. How dare this puny little human, this insignificant little ant, have this much control over him. He was a God in this world. He was a God among worlds, he needed nothing but a pawn, wanted nothing but a willing puppet, a willing pet. Then, it had turned to fear. WHY, did Sixer have so much power over him? Was he weak? Was he losing his edge? Had he finally become so damned lonely in is self-induced isolation that he was craving attention; someone that would stroke his ego, grovel at his proverbial feet?

In the end, he didn’t question it. He was a God, so what if he wanted to keep a toy. His wants and his desires didn’t have to have reasons. He liked Sixer, so he claimed the man. Sixer was his toy, his puppet, his pet. He could do what he wanted with Sixer and it didn’t matter, because he wanted it. And his desires were final. If he wanted to make Sixer scream for him, cry for him, then that was his business.  

It never used to bother him when Sixer was in pain, but it does now and now is what matters. Stan approached Stanford’s small form and knelt down to wrap him in Stan’s thick arms when Ford lashed out.

“Don’t touch me!” He’d smacked Stan’s arms away and scooted until his back was pressed against the wall of the Stan O’War. A cornered animal, scared and gearing up for a fight. Stan didn’t want to fight. Not anymore. He just wanted to hold Ford, let the man curl up in his arms and rest. To stroke his back, fingers tracing every dip, every uneven patch of skin. He bet he could heal some of Ford’s scars if he tried. Give Sixer his full range of motion back. “Stay away from me! I don’t know who you are and I don’t trust you!”

“Stanford, I’m still your brother. I still care about you. I still lo-“

“Shut UP!” Stan flinched. “Shut up shut up shut up!”  Ford curled in on himself, trying to get further away from Stan. “Please…” Stanford’s plea hardly a whisper. 

Stan was wrecked. He could force this. Part of him wanted to. Part of him _really_ wanted to. Force Sixer to let Stan hold him, force Sixer to look at him, to trust him. It was so alluring. It would be easy, so easy…

No. It wouldn’t. It would be hard for Stan. Not just because of the metal plate in Sixer’s head, but because it would hurt him make Sixer do that. He wanted Sixer to love him on his own. He had, once-twice upon a time. As a lover, a brother, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, just as long as Sixer loved him, cared about him in some way.

Stan slowly stood up from the deck, standing over his brother. Sixer looked so small, so fragile, he wanted to pick him up and wipe the tears away, carry him to bed and talk about nerd things. About the kids, about anything. But he didn’t. All Stan did was blink and stare at his brother, Stanford’s form still heaving with silent wails.

“I love you”, was all he could muster before he turned and walked back into the cabin and below deck. Stanford’s tears just intensified.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one. So, after analyzing all of Bill's comments in the Reddit AMA and categorizing them into Bill characterization, Unintended statements that reveal much about his character, Filler because it's an AMA and he had to acknowledge real people in a certain context, and LOL RANDOM statements; I found his mention of Edwin Abbott Abbott and FlatLand as a "decent idea" to the question "What spawned your existence?" This book is satire, but hurts my brain. 
> 
> So I bought it and am studying it. This is why this chapter is short. Hopefully the next one will come faster.


	14. Makeovers and Moral Quandaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper and Mabel share a bonding moment where she pretends to do his make-up. 
> 
> The twins also discuss the ramifications of accepting what Bill/Stan has done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be half of a single chapter. I have decided it was too long and posted the first half while I finish the second. I should have it up by Friday - ish.

Nothing about this made any sense. Nothing in his research, nothing in his uncle’s research, not even first-hand experience corresponded to what Stan was going through. Both Mason and Ford had been possessed, and short of trying to locate Blarmy – or whatever his name was, time guy – there was no one else who had made a deal with Bill that they could talk to. Ford had accumulated a lot of accounts of Bill throughout history, but so far none of them described what being possessed by Bill was like. What was worse, was Stan was not acting like two minds swapping back and forth; he was acting like one person.

Great Uncle Ford was convinced that Stan was still in there, but was an unwilling and silent passenger to Bill’s actions. Mason was less convinced. Mason had all the information Ford would let him have – and he suspected Ford was hiding something – and it all contradicted. Stan was acting strange and knew way more than he should. Except when he acted so much like himself it was ridiculous to think he was anyone but. Stan had magic and could pull things out of the air and heal wounds. Except when he couldn’t control it and everything backfired in horribly funny ways. Stan could go into people’s dreams and manipulate their thoughts. Except when he did, he made Ford’s dreams happy and dulled the memory of his nightmares.

Stan was acting…well, like _Stan_. Great Uncle Ford was convinced that Bill had taken over, and that Stan was either trapped…or gone. Dipper was stating to lean more towards mind melding. Maybe when Stan’s mid was erased, Bill fragmented, and attached himself to the only thing that he could; pieces of Stan’s mind. So, when Stan got some of his memories back, those parts of Bill came back, just not Bill himself. Ford’s initial suggestion of Dissociative Personality Disorder might be more akin to what happened than they had originally thought.

Ford wouldn’t hear any of Mason’s suggestions, though. He had instead put all his effort into coming up with ways to extract Bill from Stan’s mind. Mabel had suggested making a necklace out of unicorn hair, moonstone and a bottle of mercury; it had worked to place a barrier around the shack, why not work for Stan’s mind? Ford was being extraordinarily stubborn and refused. He had samples of mercury and moonstone on the ship, all they needed was unicorn hair, and Stan, or Bill, or whoever, could just make some…eventually. It was so simple.

“Mason, don’t you think I’ve already thought of that? If I thought I would work, I would have tried it. Besides, Bill doesn’t seem to have the best control of magic right now, the last thing we need is for it to go haywire at the critical moment. And do you really think Bill would just produce unicorn hair for me if I asked? He knows what it does. Please, I know you both are trying to help, but don’t insult my intelligence.”    

They had both been taken aback at his outburst. Mabel had mumbled an apology and had walked away from the skype chat. Mason ended the call not long after and found her sitting in the bathtub with Waddles, cuddling her silver fox Stan plush. He had sat with her until she felt better and they put owl Ford in the time out box. Mabel had walked around with fox Stan most of the next day. Ford had eventually apologized for being harsh, but neither Mason nor Mable had suggested anything since. And Ford might be really smart and super cool and still the most awesome person Mason had ever met, but Mason was not going to forgive him just yet for making Mable cry. He had added a dunce cap to owl Ford in frustration.      

Their Grandparents Sherman and Marianne, and Great Grandma Gina had not taken the news that Stanley was still alive and Stanford was the one missing for thirty years as excepted. Grandpa had been furious, shouting so loud over the phone that Mason and Mabel could hear it from the landing. He felt bad for their dad. Great Grandma Gina had just laughed and laughed, and laughed until she cried. She hadn’t said anything else. Mason was concerned for her mental stability, just Grandma Marianne had just told them she had gone through her old pictures and laughed and smiled to herself.

Mom and Dad had gotten a hold of Soos and Melody up in Gravity Falls. Soos had done his best to confirm what Mason and Mable had told their parents while also trying to downplay the more dangerous aspects to their adventures. When asked outright, he relented and told them everything he had experienced during those hellish six days. About helping people, about Mabel’s bubble, about building the Shacktron and the fearamid. Everything corroborated with their story, and their parents were left at a loss.

Mom had always been very realistic and level-headed. She never really discouraged Mabel’s ever expansive imagination, but he never really encouraged it either. Mason thought his mom was a staunch realist; someone whose understanding of the world is set and is reluctant to believe anything that conflicts with her paradigm. Dad was less stubborn, but that also meant he was prone to flights of fancy and it had resulted in many, many, unfinished and neglected hobbies such as model airplanes, computer games, and various “revolutionary convenience” inventions. Half of them failed spectacularly. Those that actually functioned, tended to make doing things much less convenient and easy. Mabel still refused to use anything but a manual toothbrush and Mason had let his hair grow out out of shear self-preservation.

Their parents were taking everything as well as they could. Mom was in a state of denial. If they didn’t talk about it, she didn’t have to acknowledge that it was true and her whole sense of the world had turned on its ear. Dad had thrown himself into his work, revamping the entire intercom and messaging system at the office and starting work on the back log of IT problems. Neither one would discuss Stan, or Ford, or Gravity Falls with the twins. Mason supposed they just needed time.

It had taken all of his courage, but mason had informed Soos about his dad. He left out the part about Stan’s eyes and tried to make it seem like the the mind melding thing was Ford’s idea. There was no sense in worrying the man when he had a business to run. Not that The Mystery Shack was open for tours anyway this time of year, but Mason still felt like this was something they should wait to fully explain. Maybe even wait until his grunkles came home. _If, they come home._

It was Christmas in two days and not one of them were any closer to understanding what was wrong with Grunkle Stan. Mason had e-mailed all the information he had collected on exorcisms, and mind control, and daemon possession after Ford’s request and apology, but nothing seemed to be working. Ford was diligently keeping them informed on Stan’s condition. They got daily updates in the form of pictures of Stan doing random things and notes on experiments Ford had tried. Mabel had printed out a picture of Stan sitting on deck of the Stan O’War, wearing her goodbye sweater. It didn’t seem to faze her that Stan was blatantly flipping the bird to the camera; she thought it was funny.

Mason had printed out a snapshot of Stan healing a visibly broken hand. It was sick and masochist, he knew, but he was drawn to it in ways he couldn’t explain. Stan was sitting in the galley, left hand laid out on the table with fingers visibly bent at the wrong angles. He was slightly hunched, glasses pressed tight to his face and the tip of his tongue caught between his dentures. Blue flames burned from his right-hand fingertips and were traveling over the broken hand. But the eyes were what Mason had narrowed in on. They were yellow with long pupils. They were Bill’s.       

Every time Stan used magic, his eyes changed from brown to golden yellow. Every time. But it didn’t happen any other time, at least, according to Ford. Even when he was talking about things Stan really shouldn’t know, like other dimensions and unstable reality paradigms, he was just…Stan. But every time he performed magic, his eyes changed. That was the only thing that made Mason question his hypothesis. 

After Mason had begged, Ford had relented and sent them a video of Stan’s eye shift. It was spooky how unaffected Stan was when it happened.

The video started with Stan standing in the galley making dinner. The video showed Stan opening the fridge and pulling out the nearly empty jug of milk and shaking it, a forlorn look marring his face. He was turned slightly to the camera with his eyes fixated on the empty container. Stan either wasn't paying attention or had grown so used to Ford recording him, he hadn’t reacted.

The video zoomed in, focusing on Stan’s upper body. His eyes squinted briefly, and then it happened. His pupils and irises melted together and stretched out lengthwise, the sclera yellowing like a drop of dye on paper. The pigment bled out to the edges, and with it, the jug filled from the bottom. When the jug was filled, Stan blinked four times in rapid succession, and his eyes were normal again.

The entire clip was less than twenty seconds long.

It was unnerving, the first time he saw it, and only after some very stubborn pleading and trading of chores, had he shown it to Mabel. She hadn’t really reacted, just watched it loop a few times and gone back to her drawing without saying another word. She had tried to hide it, but Mason had seen her coloring some googly eyes yellow the next afternoon, fox Stan sitting beside her. He hoped she would never sew them on.

It was Christmas Eve…eve, and Mason was pacing back and forth in their shared bedroom. It sucked how little they could do right now. Ford had no intentions of leaving the Bermuda Triangle until he figured out how to fix Stan. Mason had slowly come to terms with the fact that it might be many months, perhaps years, before he saw them again. No amount of coaxing or alternate theories had changed his mind. He was going to stay there until he found a solution. It was so darn frustrating because he wouldn’t listen and he wouldn’t let Stan or Bill ow whoever talk to them. Stan had texted Mabel once early on, but that was it. One text telling her how much he loved her, and then nothing. She had kept texting him though. Pictures and gifs and little messages telling him about her day. He never responded. Mason assumed that Ford had either taken Stan’s phone, or forbidden him from using it. Ford was just being…a…he was being a poop head!

Mason hadn’t realized he was chewing on his shirt until Mabel came in, looking at him with sadness and affection.     

“Dipper, do you need help calming down?” She was dressed in her nightgown, not having changed that day due to the snowfall. She still had fox Stan tucked under her arm; owl Ford was still in the time out box in the corner, Waddles had chewed the dunce cap.

“I’m sorry, I just, I feel so useless.” Mason pulled at his hair in frustration. “I know there’s nothing we can do, and we don’t even know what’s really wrong…but I…” He kicked a stack of books at the end of his bed, immediately regretting it when he felt a sharp spike of pain shoot up his leg. He grabbed at his foot, hopping and balancing on one foot before easing down on his bed.

“I’ll get my brushes.” And that was it as she tossed Mason fox Stan, turned, and wandered out the door again.

“Mabel?” Mason caught the plush and placed it on the bed. He could hear her opening and closing cupboards in the bathroom and the familiar zip of a mesh bag. Mason frowned. He did like it, kind of, but he really didn’t feel like showering or washing his face when she was done. Make-up felt weird, and it got so messy.  

Mabel came back in with her collection of make-up and brushes. Maybe she would just paint his face this time, like she did with Grunkle Stan. Mason thought he had a picture of Stan with his tiger face paint somewhere. 

“Don’t worry, bro-bro, no make-up, just brushes.” She said, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

Mason sighed. He was really too old for this, but it always used to help when he was younger. Mabel had gotten into make-up sometime in fifth grade when the popular girls at school had come in one day with their nails and lips painted. Mable had been enamored. She had come home and stared at herself in the mirror for hours, twisting and turning her face this way and that, pulling and pushing her skin in different directions. When she was done, she frowned, sullen and dissatisfied with her appearance and had asked mom if she could get some make-up.

She came home many hours later with a bag of all sorts of products. Apparently, Mom had taken her to a consultant at the mall and they had gone over what looked good on her and what didn’t, how she should use the different brushes and how to keep her eyes open when applying mascara. It had lasted a few months, but it was too much effort to put on in the mornings. Mabel had fallen back into her tendency to sleep in and now she wore it for special occasions and for fun. And sometimes she used it on Mason. But not often.    

He stood from the bed and sat down in front of her, brushing the front of his shirt flat. Mable picked up the compact, left it closed, and pretended to swirl the make-up brush in the powder before bringing it close to his face. He could see it was clean. The first brush was fat, and wide and the soft bristles were tow-toned, light beige at the top and darker brown at the base. She was careful and delicate as she pressed the brush to his face. It was feather light, somewhere between a tickle and a touch. It was like meditation, or hypnotism, or something. Mason couldn’t really explain it. It turned his brain off for a few minutes, and right now, turning his brain off would be nice.

It wasn't just his face either; he sometimes traced his pens along the lines of his hands in school when the teacher was being particularly boring. He found that from the fortune teller at the country fair their parents had dragged them to a few years ago. Mable had been so excited to hear about all the cute boys she would get to meet. Mason didn’t remember what his fortune was, he had been too focused on the woman’s fingers tracing lines over his palm.

He remembered ‘waking up’ when Mable tugged him out of the tent to get cotton candy. It was like he could see things differently; things were clearer, more focused, and his thoughts ran smoother, answerers came quicker. For a little while, anyway. He had gone to the library about a week later and stated doing research on fortune-telling and that had lead him to his current theory; this was a form of self-induced hypnosis. Either that or meditation, but he always thought that meditation required your eyes to be closed.

He blinked a few times to rid his mind of thoughts. That wasn’t the point of this, the point was to clear his mind, help him stop worrying. The point was to concentrate and not think of anything. To just be in the moment. The brush had traveled over his cheeks, his chin, his eyes and forehead and finally down his nose when Mabel pulled it away and traded it for a different one.    

She moved onto his favorite part, though he would never admit it. He would also never admit that he had let Mable paint his toenails once. They were purple for almost three weeks until he had taken a bristle brush and scrubbed it off.  

Mabel pulled out a small and very thin brush; she said it was for mascara and eyeliner (he would never understand girls’ need to put stuff on their eyelashes, he would be afraid to poke himself). But on Mason, it was used all over.

She started with his nose, tracing the lines and curves slowly, like his face was a blank canvas and she was painting in his features. She moved onto his ears then, going over the squiggles and divots and around the outside edge. She moved onto his cheeks, following the almost imperceptible path of his cheek bone and blending into where his laugh lines would be when he got older. She drew in a spiral on his chin next; sometimes it was a word and she would make him guess it, but she was being kind today.  

When she was done, she put it back and got another one, one even finer and was probably made of only about 20 bristles. She started on his eyes, first, bringing the brush to the side of his face and running it over his eyebrows in short quick motions, like she was coloring them in. He closed his eyes and felt the brush pass over the creases of his eye lids, paying extra attention to the lower set. She had offered before to help him with some concealer; just enough to cover the bruises that had formed from stress and little sleep. But he’d declined; it felt itchy and weird and he always rubbed at his eyes.

She was almost finished, just his mouth left. She pressed the brush into the corner of his mouth and traced the outside line of his lips, making an exaggerated heart shape out of the top bow. He parted is lips and breathed through his nose. He felt the delicate caress on the inside of his bottom lip; it was somewhere between an itch and a tickle. It was hard to describe. In either case, it sent a ripple of activated nerve endings straight to the back of his head that blossomed over his whole scalp.

Mabel had said that getting her make-up done made her head all tingly; Mason didn’t know if this was what she meant, but it felt nice, and was kind of like a restart button for his brain. And it had certainly helped him calm down; he felt sleepy, like he’d just woken up from a good nap. His heart beat was slow and regular, and his breathing was even.   

“There, now your all pretty. Sometimes I wish you’d let me do that for real, though. I think you would look really good with pink eyeshadow.” Mabel started packing away the content of the bag in a somewhat orderly fashion.

Mason just pulled a bemused face and rolled his eyes. Not a chance was he going to let her make him look girly. He was only just starting to grow chest hair. Although, thinking back, if he was anything like Stan, that might just be too much chest hair. Stan was super furry. Which was kinda strange, because neither Grandpa Sherman nor Great Uncle Ford were that hairy. And Ford thought _he_ was the family anomaly.

Mabel pulled out her hair bush and started pulling it through her thick and wavy curls. After coming home, Mable’s hair had gone from kinda straight, to kinda wavy, and if she let it air dry after a shower, it got really curly. She had taken to brushing it or pulling it back in a ponytail or braid to keep it tame.       

Mason had followed up on his promise from before and learned to braid Mabel’s hair properly; just as she had gotten rid of all the Smile Dip. He actually found it soothing, brushing her hair; the repetitive motions lulled him into a sort of hypnotic trance. Taking the hair brush, parting Mabel’s hair and running the bristles through the thick strands gently. Dipper had teased her and told her it felt the same as petting a dog. She had pulled a face, but had otherwise ignored his statement. His first braid was lumpy and misshapen, but after some practice getting the three sections even, he had gotten better at it.

She stood and wandered over to her own bed, continuing to brush her hair absently, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. Maybe he should offer to do it for her. They both were anxious over Stan and Ford; it was only right for him to return the favor. Something about her look stopped him, though. She was too quiet. A quiet Mabel spoke of ill news or a horrible prank. When she put down the brush and looked around the room, at anywhere but him, Mason knew she needed to talk. 

“What’s up Mabel? If you keep chewing on your lip you’re going to start bleeding again.” Mabel stopped abruptly, curling her lips inwards as if to hold in her words. As if she wasn't nearly bursting from the seams with the need to voice her concerns.

She sighed and let her body slump in resignation. She wanted to have someone to talk to about the thoughts swirling around in her head. At the same time, she felt guilty and stupid for thinking them. Stupid because she really didn’t understand anything that was going on; Dipper and Grunkle Ford were the smart ones, she only understood a little bit and even then, it was only after Dipper explained it to her. Guilty because she knew she shouldn’t feel this way. It made her a bad person, but if she didn’t feel this way, then was she wrong for not? It made no sense.

“I’ve…oh man. I’ve been thinking. About Grunkle Stan.” She paused, placing her hands on her knees and rocking back and forth on the edge of her bed. “And Bill.”

He figured that was what was wrong. They both had been thinking of nothing but since Ford called them a few days before Thanksgiving. A whole month of worry and anxiety and frustration and quickly drying pools of resources. They had both been shooed out of the library for asking multiple times if the librarian had any more books on ghosts and possession and daemons and magic. They weren’t allowed to come until the beginning of the new year, and only then if their parents accompanied them. A whole month of reading pages and pages of religious text, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, Roman and Greek scrolls, Nordic Ruins and legends, Japanese youkai myths and African accounts of witchcraft. Nothing they had yet suggested of found had worked. Or Ford had shot it down. Mason was really wishing they hadn’t tossed the journals down the Bottomless Pit; they could really use some help.

Instead of letting his frustrations out, Mason just nodded and waited for Mable to continue. She was visibly anxious and kept eyeing the nightstand where the yellow googly eyes were sitting. It wasn't a good sign.

“What if…what if he _is_ Bill. What if he’s Grunkle Stan and Bill?” Mason still ascribed to the theory that Stan’s mind had absorbed parts of Bill’s mind. Or that Bill had acquired Stan’s memories and had, in a sense, become Stan. Mable had rejected both theories. “What if you’re right? What do we really do? I don’t want to lose my Grunkle, Dipper. And Grunkle Ford won’t let him come back. And Ford can’t come back alone unless…” She didn’t finish the statement, but they both knew what Ford’s return would mean for Stan. “We’re losing them both. And I’m too stupid to help.”

Mason sighed. The chances of them figuring out a solution was getting pretty slim. He didn’t want to lose his Grunkles either. There had to be something, something they hadn’t thought of. Stan was, well, himself. As much as he could be personality wise. He was still Stan, even if he was really Bill (not that Mason believed that), but could that…be ok?

Would it really be different? He still acted like Stan. So, it wasn't like Stan was gone. He had all of Stan’s memories, all of his experiences. Weren’t those what made a person who they were? Weren’t memories and loved one and experiences the things that defined your personality, how you acted, how you thought? If Bill had those memories of Stan, had those experiences, would he _be_ Stan? It was a question Mason had been asking himself after reading that science fiction novel where a guy uploads his mind into a robot. The guy’s body died, but his mind was still recorded in the mind of the robot. Didn’t that mean the robot was the guy? If the robot thought he was human – or at least, thought he had lived a human life – and had the same experiences and personality and memories as the person he used to be, wasn't he still that person? If Bill had all of Stan’s memories and thought he was Stan, would he not _be_ Stan?

“What if he still has all the memories of Bill though. Can he be both? Have Stan’s memories and Bill’s? Or what if he just knows Stan’s memories but is still really Bill?” Mable pulled at her hair. This was a brain twister for him too. Mason didn’t want to think that Bill might just be referencing Stan’s memories like a book. He didn’t want to think that Stan was really gone. All the evidence pointed to Stan still being in there somehow. But, if he was really gone, what did that mean?      

“Is…could we…forgive him? Bill, I mean.” Mason chewed his bottom lip as he asked; it was a long shot, but their parents had always taught them to forgive if someone was really sorry, no matter what they had done. Bill was a hard one to forgive, but could they do it? He didn’t seem to be hurting anyone anymore. Ford had told them of everything Bill had done so far. It was the end of December, and Bill was not a very patient being. At least, Mason didn’t think so.

Mable just frowned. “I don’t wanna. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.” Mabel kicked at the floor with her feet, toes catching the pile of drawings and spreading them further. They were all of people and creatures from Gravity Falls.

“You forgave Gideon.” Mason didn’t want to toss that in her face, but it was true. Gideon had started out as their enemy. She had tried to steal the deed to the Mystery Shack countless times. His own parents were afraid of him. Gideon had tried to destroy their family. While he hadn’t exactly tried to kill them (and Mason wasn't counting their first fall off a cliff), he had tried to do everything he could to tear apart their family. He’d even summoned Bill, twice. Gideon was not an easy person to forgive. But they had, in the end, they had and he was crucial for the zodiac wheel to work. It was a shame it hadn’t. If she could forgive Gideon, Bill couldn’t be that much harder. Not that _he_ was all that ok with forgiving Gideon either, but he was just a kid like them. Power hungry, but still.

“Well, yeah, but, you never forgave Robbie.” Mason could tell she wanted to add a ‘so there’. And she was right, he hadn’t forgiven Robbie. Not really. Robbie was a jerk and he hadn’t treated Wendy well at all. And that wasn't just because Mason liked her, even Soos had commented on it once, but Wendy had just brushed it off. But she was tough, if anyone could take Robbie at his worst, then it had to be Wendy. But Robbie had changed. Being with Tambry had changed him; he was less moody, less of a jerk. He even wore something that wasn't black before they left. Mable had snapped a picture of him in a green t-shirt with ‘The Farfetched Oaf’ embossed on the front. Mason didn’t think he would ever be friends with Robbie, but, he could try to not be antagonistic.

“Not…yet. But I can try. Besides, he’s different now. Being with Tambry is good for him. And Gideon is making an effort to change too.” Mable still seemed unconvinced. “And what about Pacifica, she was talking about taking a job at the Greasy Dinner with Lazy Susan when we left. She’s really making an effort to change how she is.”

“Yeah. But the only reason they changed was because of Weirdmageddon and all the creepy supernatural things going on in Gravity Falls. Do you think that they would still be the way they were without that kind of trauma?” Mabel had a good point. Trauma can change a person, and not always for the better. It had with Gideon, Robbie and Pacifica, but…did that make it ok?

“Is it ok to like how someone changed to be good, even if they only changed because something really scary and bad happened to them? Am I a bad person for being ok with that?” It was obvious that this had been weighing in Mabel’s mind for a long while. She had told him about the Unicorns. She spent the whole day thinking she was a bad person and that she was irredeemable. But it wasn't true, she was good, even if she occasionally was selfish or did not entirely good things. She was, on the whole, a very kind person.

“No, Mabel, you’re not a bad person. Yes, people can change and sometimes they change because they go through something that’s horrible, but you aren’t a bad person for enjoying the benefits of someone who was a jerk to you, suddenly change for the better. They changed, that isn’t your fault.” Besides, if someone decided to start trying to be a better person, wasn't that batter for everyone?

“I still feel guilty though. Like, I should have tried to like them before they had a big life altering moment. I should have tried to forgive them before they were sorry. And that still doesn’t make forgiving Bill any easier. I know I should, especially if he’s sorry, but…a part of me wants him to feel as bad as I do.” Mable bit her lower lip again. “And we don’t know yet if it’s just a big scam. Grunkle Ford seems to think it is. What if we forgive him and he tricks us again?”    

Could she work towards forgiving if the person showed they were worth it? Could they be redeemed? Could he? Was Bill worth the effort?

“Bill has done a lot of really terrible things.” Mason agreed. “I don’t know if I could. But is he redeemable? Could he change too, for the better?” He didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t really expect Mabel to have one either. If Stan was really Bill now, could that be ok? Maybe if Bill was on his own, like a floating triangle without any magic powers, Mason could try to find some value in him. All life had value, and everyone was capable of doing good, you just had to find a reason for them to want to. But If Bill had taken Stan, erased Stan in order to stay alive, Mason didn’t blame Mable at all for her hesitation.

Mable hugged herself. He could tell she was turning things over in her mind too. She wasn't stupid. He didn’t care if she didn’t understand the science behind all of it; she was the one that suggested a lot of interesting an plausible ideas that made a lot of sense with the evidence they had.  

“Ok, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but, just, just hear me out ok?” Mabel held up her hands in a show of peace. There wasn't much more she could say that was crazy; they lived crazy, ate it for breakfast. She gulped and twiddled her thumbs, eyes flicking between her hands and the nightstand.

“What if, Stan is still, himself?” Mason didn’t understand. Stan was himself, until he wasn't. And that was the problem. They didn’t know if it was Bill and Stan, Stan with bits of Bill, or all Bill playing at being Stan. “I don’t understand what you mean. Of course, he’s still himself.” Mabel shook her head.

“No, what I mean is, what if he’s Bill _and_ Stan? Like, what if they’re the same person?” Hadn’t that been what he had been saying? They had gone over this. Was she finally seeing what he meant? What was she playing at?

“Like Bill is still in there? Or that they co-exist in Stan’s mind?” Mason was just trying to figure out where her mind was. There were too many possibilities, and Ford’s prevailing theory was one neither twin wanted to accept. 

“No, because that would be obvious by now.” She paused a moment. “What if Stan has always been Bill? Like, even when we met him at the bus stop. Or when he was a traveling salesman, or when he broke Grunkle Ford’s science project.”

That was something he hadn’t expected her to say. Nor did it entirely make sense the more he thought of it. At least, not a first. Either Bill was playing the longest waiting game of all time, or…   

“In those books we were reading, I came across something called reincarnation. And it made me start to think if maybe…ya know. If Stan might be, had been, someone else. Before.” Mabel had hidden her mouth behind her knees and her voice came out muffled and garbled.  

“You’re suggesting that Stan is Bill, reincarnated?” Mabel just hid her face completely. That _was_ what she was saying. But how? How would that have happened? And why? What would have caused that? The last any of them had seen of Bill was an astral form entering Stan’s mind. None of them knew what transpired between Stan and Bill in the final moments before Ford used the memory gun. And if that was the case, how would that work time wise? Blender, or whatever, had warned them about doing things in the past that might change the future. If Bill and Stan existed at the same time, how could Stan be Bill reincarnated? Unless the timeline was folded, but that was impossible, surely at least improbable.   

“You’re right, it’s stupid.” No, it wasn't, not if time could be folded. Mason might need to learn some physics for this one.

“Not, completely. It might plausible. I mean, Stan and Bill do share a lot of characteristics. I just don’t know enough about spacetime and time-travel to know for sure. Man, I almost wish we could talk to Time Baby. Or that Belvin guy.” Mason reached for a notebook and started sketching out a possible timeline that would explain their current problem.

“Yeah, but Stan’s not mean like Bill was. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Mabel laughed nervously, eyes trained on the yellow eyes she colored. Mason set aside the notebook, stood, and walked over to the nightstand. With a quick sweep, he dumped the googly eyes in the drawer and closed it. Mable hid her face behind her knees again as he sat down beside her.

The ramifications of Stan being Bill, really being Bill, was starting to make his head spin. Unleashing Weirdmageddon on Gravity Falls, turning the townspeople to stone, driving people to insanity, tormenting Grunkle Ford for years. Heck, they were lucky no one had died, but Mason supposed Bill hadn’t really been trying to kill anyone; where would be the fun in that? But if Stan was Bill, what did that mean for them? The question was out before he really had time to think about it.   

“Could you love him?” Mason didn’t know if he had the courage to look at Mabel’s reaction. Her voice was enough to tell him his question had hurt.

“But he’s not!” Her voice was watery, she was going to cry again. He didn’t like making his sister cry, but, well…she was the one that brought it up, and he honestly didn’t know what his own answer would be. And it was obvious she believed it to be true. It wouldn’t be this hard to accept if she didn’t. But that meant that Stan had been a really bead person. He dropped his chin into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

“For the sake of argument.” He eyed fox Stan still sitting on his bed across from him. The light reflecting off his shiny plastic eyes. It felt time it was watching him. Mason shivered. Mabel was rocking back and forth beside him.  

“I, don’t know. My head wants to say yes, but my heart keeps doing flip-flops.” She fisted her hands in her nightgown. The shirt was getting pretty threadbare; it was one of dad’s old ones from college. He had gone to some computer convention back in the early nineties and got a free t-shirt with a 3/5 floppy drive on it. Whenever she had sleepovers, Mabel had to explain what it was; most kids didn’t know.

“I want to. I really, _really_ want to. But, I don’t know if I can. I mean. That would mean he did a lot of really bad things. Like, really, _really_ bad. Like hurting people on purpose and liking it, bad. Like making people think they were crazy and killing them, bad.” There were tears in Mabel’s eyes now. Mason could tell that she was being as honest as she could. “But Grunkle Stan would never do anything like that. I know he wasn't always the best he could be, but he’s not evil Dipper!” Mable had uncurled and clung to his arm. She sounded desperate. She needed him to confirm her statement. He nodded.  

Mason had to concede to that. Stan was definitely on the moral low ground and was on the wrong side of the law more often than not, but Mable was right, Stan wasn't evil. And certainly not evil like Bill. If Stan was Bill, then what changed? How could he be so different? This was a theory he hadn’t considered before; if they wanted to narrow down the possibilities, they needed to explore this fully.

“If Stan really is Bill, and has always been Bill, then why hasn’t he said anything. Why didn’t he warn Ford not to summon him in the future? He would know, right?” Mason was more thinking aloud now, he didn’t expect Mabel to answer him.

“Maybe, he forgot? When I was reading, the Buddhist Monks believed that you forget all of your pervious life in order to fully embrace the new one. Or maybe it had something to do with changing your perceptions on life to correct the mistakes you made before. I don’t know for sure. We returned that one a while ago.” Mable slumped back down on the bed and sprawled out on her back, feet hanging off the side.

It was definitely a plausible theory the more he thought on it. It would explain some things, but not everything. “Ok, then how does he have magic? Did he always, or did it just now manifest?” Mable was quick with an answer.

“He could have been hiding it.” She crawled up the bed and dropped down on her pillow with an audible ‘poof’, a few feathers flying away to dance in the air.   

“No way could Grunkle Stan keep that a secret.” Mason crossed his arms.  

“He kept Grunkle Ford a secret, and the portal.” She tugged the blanket out from under him and covered herself with it. _This is not the time to go to bed, Mabel!_  

“Yeah, but Ford said he makes thing appear even when he’s not trying.” Mason turned to face her, not ready to let the topic go just yet.

“Ok, well, maybe they’re new. Maybe he got them when he reunited with his past self.” She yawned and let her head fall face first into the down pillow. Mason paused. What if Stan _had_ gotten his memories back after Weirdmageddon? Mason didn’t think he had. If Stan had remembered being Bill, of doing the things he had done as Bill, then he wouldn’t be acting like everything was normal. Mabel had said that Stan wasn't evil. If Stan had regained his memories of being Bill, then he would be in a state of existential crisis. He would be questioning everything he knew, everything he was and everything he believed in. He wouldn’t be as calm as he was. He would be scared, trying to make up for it. Stan had opened the door on Soos once, nearly broke the handyman’s nose. Soos had said he was fine and that it was ok, but Stan was obviously distraught. He had been verbally flippant about the matter, but Soos had gotten free ice-cream, invited to dinner and got a whole Pizza to himself, and Stan promised to spend an afternoon teaching Soos how to box. When Stan did something he perceived as wrong – and hurting people was one of the big ones – it always tore him up.     

“That would explain why he had more knowledge.” Mason was still skeptical. There was no way of knowing for sure until they asked him what he remembered about being Bill, _if_ he remembered.

“But that doesn’t answer my question. Could you still love him, knowing that he has done such terrible things?”

Mable sighed, half her face buried in her pillow and looking up at Mason through one eye.

“I want to. Do you?” She voice was quiet, but not because she was tired. She didn’t know his answer, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Just in case it wasn't something she could be okay with. But Dipper was her brother, she would be okay with whatever he decided. If that meant he couldn’t love Grunkle Stan anymore, then she would just have to love him twice as much to make up for it. She just hoped that she could. She wanted to. She very much wanted to. He smiled at her, and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Yes. I think that’s good enough for now.”     

They both went to bed that night, not with the excitement of the coming holiday as other children might have, but with the anxiety of a moral quandary that was their Grunkle Stan. If he was Bill Cipher – and had always been – could they still love him knowing all the bad things he had done? Dipper had told her that he wanted to. Stan might not remember being Bill, and thus would not remember all the bad things he had done. Can someone be held responsible for wrongs that they didn’t remember doing? Accountable, yes. But, hadn’t Bill already been held accountable for his actions? He’d been reborn and had forgotten everything. He started again. A clean slate.

But Mable could tell Dipper was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her. They both knew that there was a lot of Grunkle Stan’s history that they didn’t know. Well, that they weren’t supposed to know anyway. Dipper and Mabel had seen a lot of things in Stan’s mind that they hadn’t talked about with anyone else. Grunkle Stan had had a hard life.

Dipper wrote about some innocuous things in the journal. Like Stan wearing Groucho glasses to his Bar Mitzvah, going door to door selling vacuums, and eating cereal out of a box on his birthday in a motel room, Stan’s marriage – and soon after, divorce – to Marilyn and her attempts to steal his car, and the empty swing set on the beach. But they had booth seen a lot more. Stan’s life was filled with so many bumps and roadblocks and sharp turns and pot holes, they were surprised he had lived long enough to make it to sixty. 

There had been some happy memories. Winning a red frog stuffed animal from a skeet ball came and rushing home to give it to someone. Dancing with a brown-haired teen Dipper assumed was Carla Macorkle. Lots of memories of a half-finished boat and a beach with someone Mabel couldn’t quite make-out. Sitting in a hotel room holding and cooing over a two-year-old while someone was in the shower.

They had also seen what he did to get by. Dipper had seen Stan at a street corner wearing lots of tight leather and accepting money from someone for a “good time”. He hadn’t stayed to watch what that meant. Mabel had seen Stan sleeping in his car under an overpass hoping the gang fight across the way would just go away and not notice he was there. Dipper saw Stan covertly handover papers to a guy with white powder under his nose and a pocket full of little candy like pills.

Mabel had seen Stan enter a men’s bathroom stall with another man. Soos – or maybe it was Bill by then – had closed the door quickly and shook his head.

They were young, but they weren’t stupid. They knew what those fleeting images meant, even if they hadn’t made sense out of context at that moment.

Stan had done things with people for money. Mable had read enough romance novels with Grenda and Candy to know what that entailed. Stan had done things for people who sold drugs. Dipper remembered the “just say no” campaign at school to know how dangerous that work had been.

No, If Stan really was Bill, he didn’t need to do anything else to repent. He had suffered enough. Mason fell asleep clutching fox Stan tightly.          


	15. Christmas Dreamscapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gives the twins the best Christmas present he can give. Ford gets embarrassed a lot.

Mason opened his eyes and found himself on a giant puffy, amanita mushroom. At least, he thought it was; he didn’t think normal amanita’s quacked when you poked them. The blue grass stalks towering above him and covered with purple and red dew drops seemed to shield him from the sun. He saw the shadow of a bird pass over him; it was a feathery monstrosity. He was dreaming, that was obvious, but the context of his dream was unusual. He couldn’t see much else beyond his little clearing and the sky, which was a seafoam green with pink wisps of clouds like the artist had started to run out of pint. Where was he? He didn’t remember ever imagining anything like this before; nor had he seen anything like it recently. 

Aloud screech of excitement – from the only person such a screech could come from – echoed in the empty air.

“Mabel?” Mason squinted his eyes and tried to shield his face as he scanned the ~~tree~~ , er grassline. 

“Dipper!” His head snapped up a moment before he braced himself for the impact of his sister launching herself from wherever she had been overhead onto his perch. She landed heavily and caused the mushroom to let out a chorus of distressed quacks.   

“oof. Ow, Mabel, you’re heavy.” He winced, voice strained with the lack of adequate air. He tried to push her off, but the more he struggled, the more the mushroom top quacked and jiggled and he couldn’t gain any leverage.  

“Oopse, ok.” Mabel wasn't getting any leverage either, but it didn’t matter much when a set of butterfly wings began to unfurl from her back. They unraveled slowly, the thin webbing damp and dripping with a milky substance. A few drops landed on his face and rolled down his cheeks. It was weirdly sweet, like coffee creamer, and kind of tasted nutty. When her wings were outspread, she flapped them a few times, spraying the mushroom and Mason with more sticky nectar before she lifted off into the air. 

“Is this better?” She called, hovering about four feet (was it feet, or were they really small) above him. They were very fancy wings, having multiple sharp points and curves and embellishment tails that hindered rather than aided flight. In fact, she shouldn’t be able to fly at all. And not just because the wings wouldn’t support her weight. 

“How…how did you…oh, right, I’m dreaming.” Mason scratched at his head and tried again to stand on the mushroom. It let out a heave and a long-suffering quack as he got his footing. It was like that bouncy castle Mike in the third grade had at his birthday party. Mason an Mabel had gotten into a jumping contest…they were asked to leave when the thing sprung a leak. It was a lot less fun than he remembered.    

“Yup, but oh so wrong” Mabel sang from above him, and spread open her arms and rained glitter and small plush strawberries down on him. A particular large berry bounced off his nose; it smelled like baby wipes. Where were they, a weird form of Mabel Land? “I found him!” 

“Wait, what?” Mason had taken off Wendy’s hat to shake the glitter from it – and try to wipe away some of that nectar before it dried – when he hear rustling in the grass forest beyond. 

“FOUR!” The mystery voice was rough, gravel in a tin can rough, and he would know it anywhere. The yellow object flying directly at his head was certainly unfamiliar. 

“What!” Whatever it had been – Mason assumed it used to be a tangy and creamy fruit – was now splattered across his face and shirt, staining the material a bright yellow as the pulp dripped off. He had only a passing moment to be upset when another fruit came out of the grassline and hit Mable. She seemed far less agitated at the mess it caused, instead laughing and crying out in exuberance at the two figures materializing at the edge of the clearing.

Stanley and Stanford Pines stood in all their seafaring glory. Stan wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans that looked as salt encrusted as his boots. He had on a tan trench coat, a read beanie and a pair of palm tree novelty sunglasses. Stan was smiling wide enough, Mason was sure his face was starting to hurt. Ford, however, was not smiling. In fact, if Mason was not mistaken, Ford looked down right livid, face pinched as though he was barely holding back the urge to scream at someone. Ford wore a blue sweater embossed with gold letters that spelled out ‘Nerdy’, brown trousers and stained boots, and a replica of the fishing hats Stan had sewn for Mason and Mabel; it read ‘Sixy’.

“Gr-grunkel Stan? Great Uncle Ford?” What in the heck was he dreaming. His dreams were never this lucid, even when he wanted them to be. He had spent a large part of the summer angry at his own brain that every time he dreamed of kissing Wendy, her face was foggy and blurry and it felt like he was moving through water. He knew when he was dreaming – usually – and this was way too real. It was almost like going into someone’s mi-

“Hey, he finally caught on. It only took Mable a few seconds. Ah well, guess some of us have to overthink things, huh Poindexter.” Stan flipped off the fishing hat so it hung around Ford’s neck and tousled Ford’s hair. Ford angrily pushing Stan’s arm away and flattening out his now pillow quality poof. Mason really should ask him how he keeps his hair that, well, voluminous. He suspected his uncle used a lot of hair gel, or hair spray. He did always have a distinctly chemical smell about him, but Mason always assumed it was due to Ford’s various experiments. Maybe he was a closet fashion aficionado?         

“Merry Christmas!...eve.” Stan spouted, faltering a bit at his correction but still keeping his signature Mr. Mystery grin. He knelt and spread his arms wide, expecting the twins to charge forwards and hug him. Mason carefully slid off the amanita to the ground, Mabel flapped her wings a few times and landed beside him. The twins looked at each other with concern; Mabel was no longer grinning and Mason was chewing the inside of his cheek. Stan’s arms drooped, a melancholy sigh escaping his lips to wrap around his form.

“Alright, alright. I can understand that. They are a bit tacky anyway.” Stan ran a few fingers up his cheek and hook into the hinge of his novelty glasses. With a flourish, he whips them off, revealing his normal glasses overtop deep brown eyes wit round pupils. Only then do the twins rush forwards.

“Grunkle Stan!” They shout in unison, each hanging off one of Stan’s arms. He smelled like salt water and a bit like fish, but neither one cared enough to be bothered. Stan wrapped one arm around each of them, one hand coming up to tangle in Mabel’s hair and the other nearly knocking off Wendy’s hat. Mason felt his cheek press into the fur and cold metal peeking out from Stan’s low shirt collar. It tickled his nose and the chain links were going to leave an impression in his face, but for the moment, everything was right.      

“This is hardy appropriate.” Que Mr. Grumpy Pants, Great Uncle Ford to spoil the moment. Stan let go of the twins and stood slowly, using Mason’s shoulder for leverage and nearly knocking him over. _So, Stan got a lot stronger._

“Aw, common Poindexter, we’re in the middle o’the Bermuda Triangle. How else am I gonna get them their presents?” Mason recovered from his stumble and turned to look at Ford, who looked just as irritated as he had before, perhaps with a hint of deep seeded weariness. He rubbed heatedly at his eyes, six fingers pushing his glasses up to his brow. Even though he could probably change his appearance in the mindscape – Mable had been slowly changing her seater color during their exchange, it now sported a pineapple pattern – Ford looked tired. And not the ‘I need sleep because I stayed up too long working’ kind of tired, either.

“Bill, stop it.” Ford’s snap made both kids jump. Mable’s eyes darted back to Stan’s. They were still brown, but now they swam with unshed grief and shame.  

“Aw jeeze. Look, can ya, just this once, call me ‘Stan’? For them?” Stan gestured to the two twins with his open palms. It was Stan, though. His eyes were normal. So even if Mabel and Mason were wrong and it was Bill, he wasn't the one in control now…right? This was Stan. Out of all the things they had learned about Bill, the only consistency was his inability to change his eyes. Mason trusted him. Mostly. Maybe not completely, at least, not if his sister could get hurt. Mason’s eyes snapped to double check that Stan’s eyes were indeed still brown. They were.

Ford looked back and forth between the two teens in front of him and sighed. He couldn’t deny them anything, not when they were this close – even if it was just a mental projection. Ford, too, knelt and embraced the two kinds that had launched themselves at him. Ford’s sweater was soft, and his hug tighter. Mason felt his back pop and hear Mable let out a muffled squeak of protest, but Ford just squeezed them tighter. Ford held them for an awkwardly long time, long enough for Mabel – who LOVES long hugs – to get bored and start tracing the letters on Ford’s sweater. Their uncle needed this. Mason didn’t know why or what was going on in Ford’s head, but it was obvious he needed to make sure they were okay. So, they obliged him.  

“This was kinda a present for you too, ya know.” Stan mumbled, hand rubbing at the back of his neck where the hair had grown to cover it. It wasn't quite long enough to be considered a mullet, but it covered his neck and stopped maybe an inch before his shoulders. He avoided making eye contact directly, but he never turned away so that they couldn’t see his face. It made it easy to notice the slight blush creeping up his face.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” Ford muttered into Mabel’s hair before letting them go, _finally_. His hands lingered on their backs, though, each set of six fingers toying with the cotton fabric. It was really weird how tactile it was in the mindscape. Everything here was just a mental projection of what was – and often what wasn’t – in the real world, but it all felt real. 

“I know, I’m gonna sleep for a day after this, but it’s worth it.” Stan just deflected with a grin and a laugh. Mason didn’t care if any of their hypotheses were right, there was no way that Stan Pines was not standing in front of him. He placed his hand on his shoulder, over Ford’s, and leaned into Ford’s arm. Mabel let go of Ford and bounded over to Stan, climbing up his torso to hang from his bicep like an overgrown monkey. She even swung back and forth, losing her wings in favor of a prehensile tail. Mason felt Ford’s grip tighten painfully, his nails leaving six grooves in Mason’s shoulder. Mason winced, but Ford let go when Stan hurriedly gathered Mable and set her back down on the ground. Stan took an obvious step back to distance himself, eyes fearfully darting to Ford. 

“Common you two. Wh-where do you want to go?” Stan had recovered, but only just; his voice wavered and now carried a tinge of anxiety.

“What do you mean?” Mason interjected in an attempt to break the tension that has enveloped the clearing.

“Your Christmas present. Anywhere you want to go. Anywhere! All ya gotta do it tell me. I can’t read yer minds right now, too much energy goin’ inta keepin’ all our minds connected.” Stan explained with a dismissive wave of his hand, glossing over the specifics of how exactly he was able to do what he was doing. In fact, he didn’t bother explaining much of anything; he knew that Ford had told the kids everything – well, not _everything_ , but everything important anyway.

“Anywhere?” Mable squealed, head already filling with all the possibilities of kittens and ice cream baby fighting. 

“Anywhere.” Stan countered. Anywhere they wanted to go. No limits. Well, heck, then where should they go first? Mason started towards Stan and Mabel met him halfway. They put their heads together, whispering and glancing over their shoulders occasionally to look at Stan or Ford. Stan pulled at his collar a bit, suddenly feeling nervous about the twins conspiring together. Ford was fairing no better, still gathering himself after the horrid recreation of his nightmare. The one that nearly broke him. The one that would have broken him if Bi-Sta… **he** hadn’t muted it. **He** wasn’t stupid, and had picked up on Ford’s anxiety immediately. Stanford prided himself on his ability to control his fear, but the kids were a whole different matter. He would always be fearful for them. Always.

It grew eerily silent, save for the breeze rubbing the grass blades together. The younger Pines twins had stopped talking and were now glancing back and forth between their Grunkles. Neither Stan, nor Ford had yet noticed, too wrapped up in their own heads. The twins glanced at each other and nodded, Mabel clearing her throat to gain attention.

“Decided yet?” Stan asked nervously. He wanted to get this thing started, he wanted to distract himself entertaining the kids, he wanted Ford to stop being so uptight; they were in the mindscape, there wasn't anything he could actually do to anyone here, even if he wanted to. It was talking nearly all of his concentration to make sure they were all on the same wavelength. He didn’t even think he could alter memories at this point, again, not that he wanted to. He wanted to show his brother that he wasn't going to hurt the kids, that he wasn’t going to hurt Ford, that he just wanted them to be happy, together.

“Animation Land Studios World!” Mabel’s shout might’ve actually shook the ground. Stan cocked his head at the unexpected request. Anywhere in time and space, anywhere in existence, even other dimensions, and the kids wanted to go to an amusement park. Albeit a very expensive and world renown one that most people sat on a waiting list of nearly five years to get a ticket, but still, an amusement park.

“Ok, you want the whole thing? ‘Cause that might take a while, that place had got more square acreage than the forest around Gravity Falls.” Not that he couldn’t do it, just, they might get to the edge and it might take some extra time to load. Real life lag. Or, ya’know, close enough. 

“Actually, we just want the Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker. Mabel and I have always wanted to see if we could handle it. It’s supposed to go like 0 to 80 in eight seconds.” Both kids were giddy.

“A competition, eh? I suppose I could oblige ya. And ya can’t have a park without extra greasy and covered in sugar carnival food! Alright! I think I got it!” he said, cracking his knuckles.  

Stan clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. He adjusted his posture, standing tall. His face closed, intense, and focused. In a few short moments, there was a stranger standing in front of them wearing Stan’s skin. He looked, well, like one of the guys on Mabel’s romance novels. It was freaky how just a subtle change could make such a huge difference. Stan sighed, faltered, and grimaced.

“Ah, kids, um…Ya, ya’know what happens, when I, ya’know, do stuff, right? I know Ford’s told ya, but, well, I know ya haven’t seen it fer yourselves yet. And, I didn’t wanna freak ya out, or nothin’.”  

Mable frowned. They knew, but Stan was right, seeing it in person (well, close enough) was something else entirely. Mason brushed the back of Mable’s hand with his own and she took the hint, interlacing their fingers loosely. Their heard Ford step up behind them.

“It’s ok. We know. Thanks for the warning though.” Mason nodded in agreement.

Stan sighed again, air pushed out between puckered lips as he closed his eyes and steadied himself. They waited a beat, then two. The ground began shifting, the dirt and sand grains vibrating away as asphalt rose from below. The giant grass and mushrooms faded in an out of clarity, pulsating out of existence. Stan’s eyes snapped open, they were bright yellow, elongated pupils. Mason felt Mable’s hand cling tighter to his; Ford bracing both teens with a hand to their backs.

It was different in person. So much different. Mason’s subconscious was screaming at his to ‘Run, get out, get away!’, but he held his ground. Mable and Ford helping to ground him. It was Bill. Except, it wasn't, and as the scenery changed around them, Stan’ eyes changed too. With every blink his eyes grew white, irises forming and pupils curving into perfect circles. With the last blink, the last trace of yellow, the ground stopped vibrating and they stood in the middle of Animation Land Studios World, right at the start of the line the eighth wonder of the world itself; The Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker, the world’s fastest and tallest roller coaster.

The shock from seeing Stan perform magic wore off quick a Mason and Mabel jumped up and down and raced to the front of the line. Why, not, there was no one here, not even park attendants. Stan wobbled in place a moment before regaining his balance.

“Hey, wait up!”

The twins paused climbing into the front seat of the coaster to see a young boy, maybe their age – maybe a year or two younger – wearing a red and white striped shirt and jeans ripped at the knee. His left cheek sporting a band-aid, and a missing tooth. He jogged up to the twins and took a seat behind them, shouting, “Hey Poindexter, you gonna sit this one out?”

Ford muttered something that was lost to the distance between them and started a much slower and dignified pace to the coaster.

“Oh, come on, old timer! You can change. Or at least run!” The boy shouted at Ford, who continued his slow pace. The boy sighed, turning to the twins and mumbling, “Older brothers, right?”

The twins blinked in unison. “Stan?” Mable uttered the question Mason was having trouble articulating.

“The very same. Who’d’ya think it was?” The now confirmed Stan put out his hand ready to offer a greeting. “Heya.” Mason frowned this time, eyeing the child hand that started to flicker with blue fire. Stan shook his hand and arm to put out the flames and tucked them behind his head. “Yeah, well, we know each other already, so no introductions needed. ‘Bout time!”

Ford had just stepped up beside the stationary carts, arms crossed disapprovingly at Stan’s choice of form. After a few tense moments of the older twins eyeing each other, Ford stepped onto the coater beside Stan and flipped the safety bar down.

“Woohoo! Alright, let’s get this party started!” With a wave and blink, the safety harnesses slid and clicked into place and the bars dropped down. Mason and Mable were jittery and practically vibrating in their seats. The carts jolted and began the slow assertion to the top. A click every second, the cart shuttering every three seconds, the ground slowly fading away below them. Stan was starting to have second thoughts about this. He wasn’t completely cured of his fear of heights. The higher they went, the lighter and lighter his head felt. Every moment it seemed like they would stop, but it kept going, higher and higher and higher. Stan kept moving the clouds higher to make it seem like it was shorter than it was, but Mabel was too strong and materialized an airplane flying below their point on the ramp. Stan gulped and grabbed at Ford’s hand instinctively. Ford raised and eyebrow at the contact, but had no time to react. They crested the top and paused, the carts teetering on the precipice. All four held their breath as the front carts tipped forwards.

Mason was wrong.

It hadn’t gotten to 80 miles per hour in eight seconds.

It did it in four.

They slowed down a bit in the corkscrew, but gained momentum in the curve before the tunnel.

Wendy’s hat had grown hands and clung to Mason’s head like a cat to the ceiling.

Mabel’s hair wrapped itself into a tight braid to keep from catching.

Ford squeezed Stan’s hand and kept his eyes closed save for a few scant moments when they went upsidedown.

Stan could not actually lose his lunch, for multiple reasons, but his body felt like it was trying.

When they finally pulled back into the station and the cart slowed and stopped with a jerk, Stan let go of Ford’s hand.

Stan was heaving and swallowing down the urge to vomit.

Ford was staring at the underside of the station roof, trying to quell the sudden onset of dizziness. The twins were distressingly quiet. The next words uttered almost made Stan want to cry.  

“Again!” Mason and Mable called out in unison.

“NO!” Both brothers called out, but their pleas were ignored and the cart left the station.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They rode the thing three times. Ford would refuse to ride another roller coaster ever again and Stan was feeling uneasy about the spinning coffee mugs ride. Stan didn’t want to be the ‘Old Foggie’, but he sat out of some of the more ‘high energy’ rides. They got hot dogs and corndogs and Stan and Mabel shared an elephant ear and got into an argument over whether it was called an aforementioned elephant ear or fried dough. Either way, they got cinnamon and sugar everywhere and Mason suggested the Splash Zone as the next ride.

Ford’s fluffy hair did not survive the Splash Zone.

Upon Mabel’s request, and Mason’s shy additions, Ford reluctantly changed form, sporting a white t-shirt, patched bomber jacket and corduroy pants. It was easy to keep up with the kids after that. He even had fun on the spinning swings.  

They wound up at the games corner and Mable was hitting bullseye after bullseye and winning prize after prize. The twins each hat a pair of inflatable, oversized boxing gloves and were playfully punching at one another. Ford had a balloon animal hat sitting atop his head and carried something that looked like a hamster in a business suit. Stan was collecting a bear with fairy wings and wand from the counter when Ford mentioned Dimension F-98/β.

It was a dimension where, instead of humans, all types of animals had evolved and gained sentience, built communities, cities and metropolitans, all living and working together. Mabel jumped at the chance to see it, Mason not far behind. With a few ground rumbles and eye blinks, they were standing in the main square of the major metropolitan city.  It was almost like New York Times Square if it had more curved architecture, more bright colors and more greenery. Plants of all types hung from the windows of the buildings and trees grew along the sidewalks. Animals of all different sizes walked or drove or rode variations of bicycles up and down the busy streets. Mable was frantic and followed behind each creature as it passed, imitating them to the best of her ability. A giraffe skateboarding, a water buffalo body builder, tiny gerbil business men, a gecko delivery boy, a duck couple corralling their eight ducklings, a snake zig-zagging his way through the feet of other animals and clutching a briefcase by his tail, frog men being bussed in as tourists and communicating via some language that consisted of more vowel sounds than there ought to be.

Mabel’s antics had Stan and Mason nearly rolling, even Ford found it in himself to smile. They located a city directory and Ford explained the layout of the city. Each district was divided based on climate and the sub-districts based on the major populace; savanna, arctic, rainforest, dessert, and a centralized urban area for non-specialized animals. Sub-districts in each major district were specialized for size and species differences. The rain forest district had a large area to the north reserved for insects and amphibians; the city and structures being built to accommodate tiny insect families. Suburbs lied to the outskirts for community based species like rodents and baboons, and the tops of the buldings were covered in trees and greenery and perches for the flight bird population. The ocean held another entire civilization, with fish and sea-bound mammals as the core populace. Coral reefs acted as telecommunication lines with one coral polyp sending a message to the next polyp down the line.

They used the tube system to travel to each of the major districts. They swung on vines in the rainforest, getting soaked in the process and dried off in the hot desert district. Mason and Mabel got into a sand fight and ran with a group of camel joggers that were eager to talk to the twins. Stan shoved a handful of sand down Ford’s shirt while he was distracted watching the kids. Stan paid for it when all three built him into a snowman in the polar district as a group of teenage penguins watched and laughed. They left his eyes and nose clear of snow, but shoved a carrot in his mouth to act as the snowman’s nose. Some passing snow leopard snapped a picture and they made it into the paper. The transit to the savanna district was closed for gazelle migration.    

They stopped in to talk to the mayor, a capybara by the name of Richard Waterhog, whom Ford had the pleasure of befriending when he had traveled through. Dream or not, it was proper to visit old friends, especially ones that pardoned you for stealing bananas. He’d been so hungry, and hunting was out of the question in a world where animals were sentient.

It was so strangely real that Ford wondered if Bill had tapped into Richard’s mindscape too, but once the mayor agreed to let Mable ride him like a horse, he knew it was a dream. Richard detested walking upon his front appendages, he was dignified after all. Well, he was until he had a few drinks anyway. Ford remembered the founder’s festival less than fondly. After three rounds, Richard turned into a raging flirt and had suggestively asked Ford to ride him. Ford had sputtered and politely refused, desperately citing the difference in their species would make copulation difficult if not impossible. Richard had laughed it off and bought Ford another drink that smelled of timothy hay.  

Ford could feel Stan giving him a hairy eyeball look after remembering his interactions with Richard, and he refused to answer Mason’s questions as to why he was blushing. Richard had insisted on a rather overly friendly hug from Ford as they left, and there was no doubt that it was Bill’s doing. _Can’t read our minds, my ass!_

Stan was barely keeping it together, face contorting every which way to not laugh, and Mable gave him a thumbs-up and a look she was way, way too young to be throwing him. He was never going to live this down. When Mabel tried to engage him in conversation “Hey Grunkle Ford, that Guinea Pig guy seemed to _really_ like you”, Ford immediately changed the subject and started discussing the complexities of building a civilization underwater with Mason. Mable and Stan shared a quiet chuckle at Ford’s red face; Mason noticed, but decided his uncle’s business was private.

It wasn't long after that both younger twins expressed a desire to explore an underwater city, so another few blinks and they were on Elcoris 4, a planet in dimension A412 that was 90% water and the denizens had adapted to building underwater. They were humanoid with pale blue, speckled skin, webbing between their fingers, toes and attached to their arms and legs. They communicated via sonar, but could speak above water. A few flicks of Stan’s wrist and the four of them each had a bubble of air around their heads and flippers attached to their feet.

They swam in and out of buildings, kelp forests and into the drop-off of the continental shelf. Their guide, a man whose name Stan didn’t like and had instead called Drew, warned them of the drop-off and the potential for sea serpents. He warned that the deeper they went in the planet, the larger and more aggressive the monsters became, warning that if they went too deep, they would find a lava lake with a fire breathing dragon.

So, naturally, Stan gave them all depth suits and they went off searching for sea monsters. And sea monsters they found. In the darkness they came across a serpent like thing with bioluminescent jelly like tentacles protruding from its head, the mouth just a hole with concentric rows of teeth. They found a squid-like creature with pincers instead of tentacles. Mason spotted what looked like a cow in the distance then turned out to be a jelly blob that could turn into anything, save for a few differences like a badly made knock-off.

They made it to the lave lake, and saw the fire – rather superheated plasma as the water was not conducive to fire (but Ford wasn't going to hold that against a population that lived most of their lives underwater) – breathing sea dragon that was easily ten times their size. It was only slightly unexpected when Stan accidently teleported them back to the main city when the beast turned towards them. Nothing could hurt them here, it was a dream, but Stan’s protective nature was instinctual.

They spent the next hour discussing how something like that could survive down there with little to no food source and both twins again expressed desire to know about Ford’s multi-verse travels. He regained them with some of his tamer escapades such as the M-dimension and the time he got into a fight with a sofa and he, with great reluctance, showed the younger twins the ‘All-Star’ tattoo still on his neck even in a child form. He was careful to not mention his other markings.                       

At the end of the day – or night – the four found themselves on Glass Shard Beach. The iconic swing set from Stan’s mindscape was fixed, and had extended to accommodate four people. The dock in the distance bordered by both incarnations of the Stan O’War, and the StanleyMobile parked somewhere in the sand lot behind them.

The memories at the swings were so ingrained into each brother that they hadn’t realized they had changed until Mabel squealed in delight. Ford, startled and reaching for his side arm (that wasn't there) turned to Mable only to realize he now had to look down at her. Which, under usual circumstances was normal, but he had gotten used to being her height all day. Her eyes were wide and shining and her hands pressed into her cheeks. “Grunkle Ford! How come you never told us you were such a hottie!”

Ford sputtered, blushing for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and scratched at the back of his neck while avoiding eye contact. He was wearing the yellow v-neck from _that_ night on the beach. Stan stood behind the younger twins wearing that damn white t-shirt, hair slicked back and acne scars. Stan just shrugged and mouthed ‘Sorry’ as he sat down on the swings. Mason turned in the sand and joined him, pausing only a moment to take in his uncle’s teenage form. Ford distracted Mable by promising to push her and they spent a good twenty minutes just laughing at how high she could get.

Mason and Stan got into a sand kicking contest and wound up losing their shoes in the process. They fell into play wrestling when Stan tried to give his nephew a noogie, over shot the lunge and landed in the sand with Mason sitting on his back.

This is what Stan wanted, all he ever wanted. He wondered if maybe he and Ford could find the fountain of youth somewhere and get some more time. More time to play with the kids, more time for days like this – ~~when~~ if they ever made it back to port – more time for games and stores, more time for them to be a family again. Stan lost all desire to put the boy in a head lock and instead gathered Mason up and hugged him tightly; sat in the sand and resting his back against the strut of the swing set. Ford had stopped pushing Mable to watch them, but now both he and Mable turned their attention to the sunset.

It was so achingly familiar, sitting in the evening air, feeling the bay breeze wash over them. Listening to the waves roll in, bringing in sand and cobbled to tumble the broken bottles into beautiful pieces of beach glass. They used to collect it for Ma, spending hours combing the fresh shards for that one smooth and polished piece. She made them into jewelry sometimes; Ford remembered Stan had been given one as a child that he wore proudly until some asshole kid called him a girl for wearing jewelry. Stan had always been…well, fighting himself in his pursuit to be manly.

Ford remembered Stan going through his wardrobe one day before the school year started and pulling out all of his favorite shirts – the ones he had to beg his parents for and who only relented because they were cheaper than anything else – and throwing them in a donation box. Pink, yellow, baby blue with little flowers embroidered on the collar, a purple one that said ‘free hugs’ (that was Stan’s favorite). They all went. It left him with not much else besides white t-shirts and a mustard yellow jacket. Stan had also tossed in the jewelry he had accumulated. The only thing he kept was a gold chain and pendant that Ford had bought for him; it was thick and heavy and was masculine enough for him to keep.

Pops had made some comments that week about the ‘Gays’ parading around in broad daylight. “They go around dressed like women, wearing make-up and hanging off each other like they ain’t committing sin. Like they ain’t sick.” Ford had seen Stan’s posture tense. The next day, he donated a bunch of old stuff to the shelter down the street, saying it was much too old to even try and re-sell in the shop. Ford, thankfully – though unfairly – never felt the need to do the same.              

He was jostled out of his depressed ruminating by Mabel standing from the swing he was holding onto and striding over the sand to reach Stan.

“I’m sorry.” She said, head hung low and voice full of remorse.

“What in the world for?” Stan nearly snapped, bewildered at the unprompted apology that seemed to come from nowhere. Mason, still sat in Stan’s lap frowned a moment before understanding dripped over his face like water. The boy took hold of Stan’s hand that was wrapped around his middle.

“I…I didn’t know if I could love you anymore. Knowing what you’ve done. But you did all this for us, even though you can’t be with us on Christmas. You didn’t have to, there was nothing in it for you, but you did it anyway because _you_ love _us_.” Her eyes were wet now, and she was nearly pleading.

Ford felt Stan take hold of his mind while he poked and prodded at the memories of the younger twins. They saw the discussion between them, the theories, the fear, the guilt and the unknown. Could the kids still love Stan even if he was Bill?

“I wouldn’t say that. I got somthin’ out of it. I got to see you kids.” Stan shifted and knelt in front of Mabel, placing his hands on her shoulders to look her in the eye. He was Bill?

“I know things are…different now. I don’t blame you for feeling or thinking the way you did, or still do. I know I…scared you…before. I’m sorry.” Mason took one of Stan’s hands and squeezed. Stan was Bill?

“But hey, we can do this again, just give me a few weeks to rest, ok? This takes a lotta brain power.” Stan was BILL! How could Stanford have forgotten? This whole time? And Bill was taking control of his mind, their minds. This had to stop. NOW!  

“Bill, that’s enough!” Stanford’s words were like a blade slicing through the air.

Stan just looked at a spot above Mabel’s shoulder and sighed, the pain and sorrow dripping from his form. His hand fell limp and lifeless from Mabel’s shoulder, fingers catching on the sleeve of her sweater. 

“Yeah. Ok.” His eyes were downcast as he stood and took a step away from them. She could see he wanted to cry. Heck, _she_ wanted to cry.

It was gradual, the change. His eyes glowed yellow again as he aged, like a movie and fast-forwards. It was hardly a ten count when the teen was left behind and the old and grizzled man that was their uncle stood before them. Grunkle Ford had changed as well, face pulled back into a look filled with anger and hate.

“Hey, it should be morning now. Should probably let you kids back, huh?” The beach was fading faster than they could process. They were falling, or being pulled away from the beach and their grunkles. Mabel looked back and saw a nightmare. Stan’s body contorted, growing in size, and taking on a triangular shape. Her vision blurred and she was jolting awake before she was able to register the voice that still haunted her dreams.

Was he Bill, or Stan? She thought she knew.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought to finish. Here is the unofficial part two of chp 14.


	16. Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill thinks about his past, Stan feels disgruntled about his memories, and all this is giving Stanford a giant pain in the wrist.

-Three Days before Christmas-

It was early morning, less than an hour after dawn. The cloudy sky blocking most of the sunlight and leaving the day dreary and grey. The sea and sky were an old couple waking late on a Sunday morning and feeling the aches and pains of the years press them down into calm stillness. Stan empathized. He was feeling his age more mornings than not. Not just physically; he was weary, haggard, and just…just done. He wanted this to be done. His golden years should be filled with sunshine and happiness and family, warm coffee and warm fireplaces, good books, a fishing pole, beers and puns. He’d lived for millions of years, he’d earned it, right? But that was the problem. He had lived for far too long. Done and seen too much. He wasn't who his family thought he was, even if he wanted to be. Even if he craved it more than anything else. Or maybe he didn’t want it. Didn’t want to be Stan anymore now that he knew who he had been. Who he was. What he’d done.

He wanted to _want_ to be Stan for his family. He wanted to _want_ to be…

It was getting harder to deal with the influx of memories. At first, I was almost numbing, random things all at once. He could detach himself from them, exist in a perpetual state of denial as long as the memories were tangled knots or random events. Like scenes from a horror movie; he was disconnected, removed from his history and could experience it as just a nightmare or a shitty drug trip. A dark stain in the tapestry woven of his life, one where he was a different person, a different experience. If he focused on it, let the memories and the feelings of then engage the feelings and memories of now, he would shatter. The guilt of it, the horror of it, that knowledge of everything he had done, he had done because he had wanted to. He _wanted_ to. Everything he had done was in his control and had happened because at one point in his life, he had wanted to cause harm, real harm, for the fun of it. Just because he could, just because it was easy, because he was bored, because he **_wanted_** it! If he accepted that, it would break his mind. And as it was, his mind was held together with glitter-glue, hand stitching, and years’ worth of candle wax burning at the midnight hour.  

But denial and cognitive disconnect only got you so far. Every morning he woke with memories clouding his mind and violent feelings lingering on the fringes of his consciousness. Memories of discontent, of manipulation, abuse, rebellion, and finally, death. So much death. None of it warranted, none of it worth anything in the end but to sate his sick and twisted need to be powerful.

It was so hard to remember how he was before it happened. Like pieces of a dream you wake from and frantically try to piece together, but the more you think on it, the tighter you hold onto the pieces, the faster they fly away. Even when he ruled the Nightmare Realm he couldn’t truly grasp his origins. He remembered bits and pieces; enough to form a framework of someone rather unremarkable.

He was, despite his brother’s doubts, a denizen of Flatland, or a similar realm if nothing else. Perhaps a different version of the Flatland Stanford had visited during his travels. Yes, he had read the additions to the journal; how could he not? Flatland, or the world of two-dimensions, was a world in which geometric shapes existed in a two-dimensional plane with no concept of up or down. While both up and down existed, just as left and right, and north and south existed as directions, those living in Flatland could conceive of nothing but what they experienced. Anything beyond was simply impossible for them to understand. Whatever life he had before, it was dull and meaningless.

While he struggled to recall his own history, the rules and reality of the extraordinarily dull Flatland were branded into his mind like a punishment. No matter how much he tried to forget, he couldn’t. Like psoriasis or a wet newspaper you kept throwing back at the delivery boy, his memories never went away.

Flatland was a caste system. What you were designated your role in society, your marriage prospects, your social contacts, and your inherent behaviors and intelligence. At the bottom rung were the criminal and peasant class, isosceles triangles. The isosceles, as the name suggests, had two sides of equal length, the third being shorter. The shorter the third side, the lower the rank, and thus the less intelligent the triangle. With each birth, an isosceles birth might result in an increase of the length of the third side until after many hundreds of generations, one might become a regular triangle. After that, every subsequent generation would be born with an additional side; a child of a regular triangle would be a square, a child of a square, a pentagon, and so on. Each generation increasing in number of sides and elevating their ranks in society. The highest-ranking beings were the polygons with so many sides, they granted themselves the designation of circle. The circles enforced the laws of the land, designating each caste and reminding the populace to be mindful of their necessity or job in society. Education was only granted to the higher castes; even if a child from the lower casts expressed unusual intellectual gifts, they were denied entry into the academy on the basis that they would squander the opportunity due to inherent lack of discipline. Bill had been unusually gifted. 

He remembered being a tradesman; he must have been born to two advanced isosceles, though he didn’t remember who his family had been, if he even had contact with them. For a time, he performed his necessity as well as any tradesman. He charmed upper classes and lower classes alike; making deals, trading services and goods for this and that. Or maybe he stole and embezzled, using threats and blackmail to increase his wealth. It was hard to say for certain, but in either case, he increased his family’s wealth threefold within his first year. He was charming, flirtatious to a fault, and it had resulted in a number of torrid love affairs. Or passing fancies, something to have fun with, bend to his will in subtle ways. He remembers a series of faces and shapes; several squares, a polygon, a circle, and so many isosceles he could have had them carry him from place to place, never having to set foot on the ground (had the concept of up or down existed, anyway.) But the revolution came, and with it, the expansion of education to any with measured skill.

He had been so hopelessly bored with his life, he jumped at the chance to do anything else. He was stagnating as a tradesman, literally burning their version of braincells on resource trading while he craved for anything more stimulating. He was granted admission to the academy. He exceled. He outperformed even the pompous polygon prodigal sons that were destined to assist in the high council proceedings. It was unheard of, a triangle with intelligence to rival that of a polygon? But he continued in his pursuit of knowledge for years, decades, perhaps centuries (time did not exist in his world as it did in this one).

In his studies, he came across forgotten accounts of The Rebellion nearly six million years ago, so far back that even family birth records did not record that far. The Rebellion had started with the discovery of color. Pigment. People began adorning their homes, their possessions, and finally themselves with pigment. Art soon followed, and the dull sounds – that praised the high council and recited a being’s necessity – that they called music evolved into something that might even be considered pleasant. With art and music, came celebrations, festivals, and parties. Birth celebrations were no longer quiet and personal affairs, instead they included music and dancing and gatherings of friends and neighbors. Wedding celebrations lasted for days, harvest festivals lasted weeks.

The segregation between the castes began to degrade. Adorning one another in pigment made it difficult to determine who was a polygon, a pentagon, or a triangle. For a few short years, it made not a difference; hexagon and square rubbed sides readily with isosceles. But do to the populace focusing more resources and attention on their celebrations, advancements in mathematics, technology and medicine began to fall. More and more of the few able to attend the academy diverted their attentions to art and music, shedding their designations as doctors and mathematicians. Fewer and fewer births advanced in intelligence as beings now coupled with those of lower standing, and lost sides instead of gaining them. 

The high council feared that the people’s obsession with color and the use of color would result in the degradation of not only just other academic purists, but of their entire social structure. Their world was collapsing in on itself, and the isosceles population was expanding. Too many poor and uneducated beings and not enough work to be had. Many were starving, dying of sickness, and succumbing to violence caused by that very poverty.

The high council, in their desperation, banned all pigments, and levied death as the punishment for continued use of it. All homes that had been decorated and built to lavish extremes were banned; all new homes had to be of pentagonal structure and be of the same size for each caste. All art was burned and music was again nothing but a low drone of necessity and duty to society. All children born of marriages between different casts were killed, the parents either imprisoned, or quickly followed. The lower casts rebelled. They used their overwhelming numbers to push through and attempted to topple the high council. But all for naught. Some in their ranks were spies, paid off by the high council to turn on their own and spread confusion and distrust. With the rebellion fragmented, it was easy to pick off the last few. It also served as a way to thin the numbers of the lower class to more manageable rates; poverty dropped to nearly zero, and all fell back into place.

When he had found this account, Bill first thought the council has acted in the best interests of the people. He understood the horrors of poverty; he saw it daily as a tradesman. Beings going hungry, becoming sick with no way to afford medicine. Beings becoming fainter and fainter, until they were gone. When a being in his world passed, they simply dimmed, getting ever fainter until finally, they vanished, leaving nothing but wisps of energy that dissipate into the ether. He saw a child, an isosceles so skinny he was hardly more than a line, disappear on the street in front of him. No parents, no family, nothing.

No one else noticed.

Why would they, an isosceles that sharp would be of no mind to function in society, hardly more than a beast. They weren’t wrong; odds were that the boy would have grown to be blunt, violent and without proper reasoning skills. Without training, he would likely have resorted to crime to get by, and would have been put to death by the courts anyway. That was back when he still believed the high councils claims that number of sides determined intelligence. He knew better now. 

But this concept of color intrigued him. Color, something so fantastical that it’s discovery nearly lead to the collapse of their world. It was so far outside of his understanding that he had to see it for himself.

And see it, he did. After many months and many, many deals, he acquired permission to enter the repository. Bill was fueled, at first, with feelings of anger at the injustice. How could the council ban the only thing that brought any fun to this bleak and stilted world? They were taunting him. Waving this in front of his face and then telling him it was bad. He saw images of painted houses, painted people, descriptions of music, and the tantalizing few notes of the one song the high council had recorded for historical records. It was blissful, serine, and hypnotic. It was wonderful, and awful and horrendously unfair.  

It drove him mad.

Think of it, something so ubiquitous, so mundane as color, something nearly all beings take for granted, something so benign as color, and Bill lost himself to it. When he heard something as provocative as a few notes of simple, child-like music fueled the flames of madness and pushed him to the brink of self-destruction.

He isn’t sure when it happened, but at one point, in a fit of madness, he imagined that perhaps something existed beyond his world. Something greater. A voice in his head, perhaps not his own, told him to ‘Look Up’. And so, he did. Without even having a concept of ‘up’, he looked, and was pulled from his own world and into another. Into three dimensions. It was marvelous. His understanding of existence expanded beyond his capabilities. But he couldn’t stay there, he had to return to Flatland. But he would show them. He would show them all what he discovered.

Stan couldn’t remember if it was a vision induced my madness, a dream or something else, but he convinced himself that the high council knew of the existence of a world beyond theirs and kept it from them. Kept it from him, to keep him weak. After all, they kept color and music from him; it wasn't such a leap to imagine the scholars of old discovering a world with beings and power beyond that of the high council, and the council finding means to shut them up. But he would expose them for what they were, weak, and powerless in the face of the truth, in the face of a world and mind expanded. He took the inherent abilities all beings of Flatland are capable of and twisted them. He learned how to manipulate objects, change their form, even pull them from other dimensions. 

He started a revolution. The isosceles were again increasing in numbers, and he used them to his advantage. He held rallies, preached injustice, of the worlds beyond, and encouraged them to fight back. He even taught some to use the magic he had taught himself; why not add some unanticipated elements to the mix, just to spice it up. It started small; a few minor acts of rebellion, some violence, vandalism. The council just wrote it off as the criminal classes becoming restless. The squad of enforcers they sent in to ‘deal with’ the isosceles were left to hang in the town center, alive, but mangled into forms unrecognizable by the denizens of Flatland. The bodies were left until they disappeared, and the enforcers disintegrated into nothing before the eyes of the onlookers.

The people were horrified. More and more instances of vandalism, more and more attacks on the unsuspecting populace. More and more efforts to locate him, the leader of the terrorist group bent on dismantling the very foundation of their world. But his allies were willing to die for him, so they did. There were executions daily, raids into homes and businesses of regular triangles on up to polygons. Anyone suspected of trying to hide information, to shield suspects, or to even have paraphernalia, were arrested. The people were afraid of both their own government and the terrorist militia attacking people left and right.

They were all so weak. They all had the ability to do what he did and yet they refused to use it. They remained in a stagnant world that never changed and when something so simple as color was introduced, it nearly torn their world asunder. He would show them that they had power, that _he_ had power. He would show them how to party, to actually enjoy life and do something with it besides what the high council told them to do. He was going to rise them up to the worlds beyond this one.     

To show them all their existence meant nothing, that it was all a lie, and would ultimately lead to nothing substantial. Their existence had no meaning because they imparted nothing of substance to anything they did. Power had no purpose if you didn’t change the world around you to suit your whims. What use was power when you lived in a world of stagnation where nothing changed because people didn’t want there to be change?

Autonomy meant nothing, had no purpose, if you didn’t _do_ anything with it.  

So, had had used his power, and when he didn’t have enough of it to do the things he wanted, he used what he had to destroy until he got it. Destroyed social taboos, destroyed ideas, strangled concepts and ideologies, eviscerated minds and shattered souls, and finally, finally, killed. He had taken a life. If what his existence could be considered ‘life’.

Death was a uniquely bizarre concept that only applied to biological creatures. He was made of some kind of cosmic energy. Or was, once he left Flatland to burn. He had stoked the fires of turmoil, provoked in-fighting, and left the masses in a desperate position of taking up arms to protect themselves and kill one another, or to die by those that did. His crusade to make the people understand what lied above their world was in vain; no one could understand the concepts he was describing. How could they, living in a world of only two-dimensions? He had decided the beings in Flatland were far too stupid and closed-minded to understand the wonders beyond their world, and so he had left, chosen to ‘look up’ and leave their dimension. Looking up, however, lead him to the Nightmare Realm; that blasted place between worlds that was above the second dimension and below the third. He was all at once both all-powerful and powerless within his own realm.

For years he struggled to find a way out. To find some semblance of the world he once saw in his insanity. He didn’t know how long he drifted in that swirling void. That realm existed outside of time after all. But he was graced with another vision, and he saw into the dreams of someone inside the third dimension. It wasn’t long after that he tried to manipulate them into getting him out of his gap between worlds and building a portal. The rest was history, quite literally, in fact.  

So, that was his life, his existence until he met Stanford Filbrick Pines. The man who changed the world. And turned Bill’s world on its ear. Made him feel weak and powerless in the face of obsession. This human, this tiny being of a species he had come to learn had hardly begun to explore outside of their world, was driving him to the brink. It had been so long since he had been able to speak with someone of even meager intellect, Stanford had been like a breath of fresh air, a calming stroke to his psyche. And he had been so close, so close to escaping that hell when IQ had turned on him.

It was cute at first. But when Sixer succeeded, escaped his clutches in the Nightmare Realm, he nearly broke. And he didn’t understand why. Why did this minor setback, one he had experienced countless times before, hurt so much? Because it was Sixer, and somehow, somewhere along the way, Sixer had become everything.    

The morning Stan woke wanting to strangle the very next living thing he saw, he started to fear that he wasn’t safe around people. That he wasn't safe around Stanford.

He was so close.

He had the impulse to wrap his fingers around IQ’s neck, to press his thumbs into Sixer’s windpipe and see relish in the fear and anger and shock dancing behind beautiful brown eyes that haunted his dreams.

He spent the rest of the day avoiding Stanford and instead missed every fish that swam by.

That evening, he tried to act a bit more casual. 

He was up in the cabin playing with Herman, passing a pen cap back and forth with the tiny sentient tree. Herman liked to try and toss the cap into Stan’s open palm from varying distances and he was getting better at aiming. The little guy as really growing on him. Herman was growing too; the tree had tiny little flower buds peeking out from the mass of leaves on his head.  

Sixer had been writing, researching, and scribbling in his journal for days now. He had written and re-written theories, logged events and chronicled the developments of Stan’s magic with aching detail that even Stan had trouble remembering. No theory Ford had tried to contain his magic had succeeded. Then again, Ford was still under the impression that Bill had taken him over somehow. Stan had tried again and again to convince Ford he was still himself, but after so many tries, he had simply given up. He answered to Ford’s calls of ‘Bill’ the same way he answered to his father’s call of ‘kuncklehead’. There was no point in fighting when the other party plugged their ears and hid their eyes.

A sigh, a grunt of pain, and the soft sound of skin against skin. It was the fourth time in an hour that Sixer had stopped to rub at his wrist. The man was going to give himself carpel tunnel if he kept this up. Stan could see a nerve pinched between muscle and tendon in Ford’s thumb; it was causing a stabbing pain and aching in Ford’s wrist and hand. He was not going to get any farther without working out that nerve.

He only hoped that Ford had gotten comfortable enough with him to let him help. They hadn’t conducted any pain experiments in a few days and Ford didn’t have any more on the roster. They had attained a sort of amicable silence, like roommates who were not really friends and didn’t really have any similar interests, and where one horrendously tormented and psychologically abused the other in a past life. Oh, and where there is a lot of weird, and really hard to classify – not to mention really taboo and unconventional, straight up abusive, and possessive – sexual and romantic tension between them. Stan hadn’t forgotten about any of that. Well, here went nothing.    

“Come here.” Ford looked up from rubbing at his wrist and turned to Stan, brow scrunched in confusion and mild irritation. It was kind of pathetic how much that look filled his heart with bewilderment. Wait, no, that was wrong…bemusement, no, befuddlement…well, it was a feeling that sweetly melded both confusion and extreme and possibly alarming degrees of affection.    

“What?” Sixer eyed Stan skeptically. He could tell Stanford really didn’t know ow to act around him. At first, Sixer had been adamant that he not grow complaint with the new status quo, doing everything in his power to remind himself that Bill was manipulative, was patient, and willing to do anything to get what he wanted. Well, Stan was manipulative in certain degrees, not patient at all – Bill wasn't either, but time didn’t pass the same way for him – and while he was willing to do anything to get what he wanted, what Stan wanted was stupidly easy to obtain. Save for one particular thing he’d been working on for a while now. One thing he would already have if it weren’t for his thrice forsaken inability to control this blasted magic which he really should not have.    

Stan rolled his eyes with a sigh.

“Ford, common, you’ve been rubbin’ at yer wrist off ‘n on fer an hour now. Least I can do is try and work out somma the cramps.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed and he immediately tensed, ceasing his attempts to alleviate the pain himself and choosing to instead go back to his writing. He was holding his wrist stiffly, distinctly, and making small movements as to not aggravate the damage. He should just get the speech to text program for his computer that Mable told him about, would save his wrists and allow him to work as fast as he could speak. But Stanford was nothing if not stubborn.   

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” He wasn’t, and a few minutes later when he was rubbing at his wrist again, Stan decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer. He pulled up his chair beside Stanford and took his brother’s right hand into his own, ignoring the squawk of disapproval.

Stan pushed up the sleeve of the red sweater Ford wore nearly every damn day – the thing needed to be washed – removed the leather band from Ford's wrist, and griped his brother’s hand with both thumbs. Stan worked at the middle of Ford’s wrist, trying to ease the muscle to let go of the nerve. He eased the pad of his thumb along both sides of the protruding tendon, making small circles as he went, encouraging the tissue to relax, to shift and go back to a more natural position.

Ford, for all his complaints, made no attempt to pull away, not attempt to flex and twist out of Stan’s grip. Ford’s fingers twitched slightly as Stan stimulated the nerves running through Ford’s hand. He pressed into the base of Ford’s thumb with one hand as he twisted the digit with his other. Back and forth, easing the muscle, flexing the tendons and letting all the pieces fall back into proper alignment.

Ford had stopped complaining. He breathed slowly through his mouth, eyes fixated on Stan’s movements. Stan could feel Ford’s heart rate through the blood vessel in Ford’s thumb.

Ba-bump              Ba-bump              Ba-bump

Calm, or getting there. Stan could see Ford’s shoulders drop, his neck loose tension and his eyes half-lidded.   

“Use ta do this for ya as kids, remember? You’d be up all night writing and studying and would get cramps so bad, your hand was curled up.”

Ford just hummed in response.

Stan had worked the nerve loose, but he continued to run his thumbs along Ford’s hand; tracing a line down the center of Ford’s hand and back up to the wrist. He cupped Ford’s hand and began tracing the creases of Sixer’s palm, pulling up what he could remember of palmistry.

The Heart Line; symbolizing relationships and connections to other people. Ford’s was broken in several places and bisected by other lines. It was supposed to indicate that his brother had relatively short-lived relationships. But when he looked closer, he could see the line was continuous, deviating from the main path and giving the appearance that it was broken. The bisecting line ended in three distinct prongs. It was no question what the line represented. Stan traced over it with his fingertips before moving on to the next.

The Head Line; symbolizing intelligence, wisdom, and innate ability for the natural arts. Sixer’s line was thick and long, spanning the entire breadth of his hand, edge to edge, and curling around to the back of his hand. There was no doubt that Ford was intelligent, but the line was faint in places, nearly non-existent and leaving some gaps. Even this nerdy brother didn’t know everything; there were gaps in Sixer’s knowledge that could fill whole chapters in a book. Stan followed the line with his nail, corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. Ford was reacting to this.

The Life Line; symbolizing the quality and length of one's life. A short lifeline may mean a physically short life, or it could mean a life that degrades in quality after a certain point. Sixer's lifeline was as it had always been; broken and segmented. A life that stopped and started again a time later. Stan felt a fresh wave of guilt punch him in the chest. His biggest mistake, the one thing he regretted above all others, was written right into his brother's palm for him to see. A cold and harsh reminder of what he'd done thirty years ago in a fit of unjustified rage and grief. Stan didn't care what anyone said or didn't say, there was no excuse for not listening to his brother and just talking about how he felt. He'd always been hot-headed, always coming to blows before trying diplomacy. It had been that way since they were kids. He always felt he had to protect his twin from the bad people in the world, always jumping in fists first without thinking of anything but to protect Stanford. Come to think of it, his quick temper had always been his downfall. Every time he fucked things up, every time he burned bridges so intensely he scorched the earth around it, it was because of his quick temper. He traced over the two segments of Sixer's lifeline with two fingers starting at either end, almost in a desperate attempt to bring the two segments together, make it whole, and give his Sixer his life back. All that lost time.

The Fate Line; symbolizing the possibility of a person affecting the world in an impactful way. Not everyone had a fate line; his Ma and Pa sure didn't, and neither really did Stan. Sixer was in line to change the world, likely still could if he didn't let Stan hold him back. Heck, with McGucket getting his memories and family back, and Mason being the prodigal mystery hunter he was, they could all change the world. He was kind of afraid of what they might accomplish if they put their minds together. A heavily regulated dystopia with the veneer of a utopia came to mind. Stanford's fate line was long, deep, and prominent. It was hard to miss it, the line was a deep groove dividing Stanford's hand, splitting it in two pieces, two parts...twins. It was forked at the base, veering off in two different directions, turning against Bill' or trusting him. Trusting Stan. Stan wanted to pretend he could see tiny little tendrils of lines linking the two ends of the fate line, that it would have merged together eventually. But the ends never again met. Stanford’s fate had been sealed over thirty years ago.

Stan traced over the major lines of Sixer's hand, back and forth, over and over again. Fingertips dancing over Ford's palm, caressing the mounds and crevasses and scars that crisscrossed their way over the hands that should have never bore them. Stan counted the fingers, tracing the length of each finger as he counted.

One thumb, one index, one middle, one ring, one pinky, one extra pinky.

Six digits, six fingers, Sixer. His brother, his twin, his best friend, his pet, his puppet, the only one who had ever made him question who he was, why he did the things he did. The only one he could think about for decades, hell, nearly a century. His whole human life had been filled with thoughts of Ford, how could it not? All they had was each other for so long, and after, not a day went by that his twin didn't cross his mind. For over thirty years, not a moment passed in the Nightmare Realm where he didn't dream of having Sixer within his grasp.

Now he did, and it was terribly bittersweet. He adored Stanford.

Stanford loathed him.

Or acted like he did, Stan couldn't really tell now. Ford was visibly affected by his ministrations, eyes trained on Stan's movements. Heart on the steady rise.

Ba-bump              Ba-bump              Ba-bump

Stan cupped Ford's hand in both of his, curling the fingers to expose the boney knuckles. He brought the hand up to his face, lightly brushing the folded fingers with his lips, warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. He felt a stilted shudder twist its way through Sixer's form, like he was trying to suppress it. Like it could be blamed on the chill in the cabin. Stan pressed a gentle kiss along Ford's knuckles, dragging his lips and leaving faint damp trails. He gripped Sixer's hand by the sides and nuzzled into it, inhaling the scent of paper and ink with a hint of chemical residue. He dared a glance at Ford's face.

Sixer's pupils were dilated. His pulse racing.

Ba-bump   Ba-bump   Ba-bump   Ba-bump

A quick and sinful tongue darted out from between Ford’s lips, wetting them before hiding once again; a panted gasp disguised as a heavy sigh followed.

Stan couldn't help the predatory grin that spread across his face. He dragged his bottom lip along Ford's middle finger, slow and agonizing. His dentures scraped against the finger joints and caught at the skin. His tongue snaked out to prelude the path of his lip, winding its way over the fingertip before Stan closed his lips over the tip of Sandford’s finger. He sucked lightly.

That seemed to knock Ford out of whatever hypnosis he was trapped in. He drew back against the chair, the legs sliding against the wood floor, yanking his hand back to his chest. His eyes were filled with shock, quickly dampening arousal, confusion, disgust and...shame? What?

"What the HELL are you doing?"

Stan didn't really have an answer, but Ford didn't wait for one. He was on his feet and bolting below deck before Stan could even get his mouth in the right position to form sound.

Ford had left his journal open on the desk, pen uncapped and slowly dripping ink onto the page. Stan left it be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to take so long with the update. I was really struggling with Bill's back story and my new job is pulling a HUGE chunk of my free time. It's good, I'm glad for the work, but I also don't have as much time to write. Updates are going to be a bit slower from now on, but I promise, I am not abandoning this.


	17. Subconscious Manifestations and Lingering Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Stan and Ford deal with the aftermath of Stan's improvetu palm reading and deal with lingering qiestions about Ford's relationship with Bill and what it means for them now that Stan remembers.  
> EDIT:  
> Sorry, guys, I forgot to mention that this chapter contains some NSFW elements. They were sectioned off, but I forgot to let ppl know. I'll be better from now on, promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edit*  
> Hey, I noticed that there was an increase of around 100 hits, but like 1 comment. I dont; wanna beg for comments, but, like, if you have anything you wanna say (anything, + or - ) please comment? Please? I can't get better without feedback. *
> 
> Holy crap, guys. I am so sorry. My job is taking all of my time and I have been able to write maybe 200 words a day since I got it. I waited a bit longer to get this out becasue I wanted to make it a little longer than usual as a gift to you. Thank you so much for all of your kind worlds. It really helps me sit down and get somthing out, even if it's just a few words on my phone while on my lunch break.

-Three Days Before Christmas-

What the _hell_ was ~~Stan~~ Bill thinking? What the hell was _that_? Stanford could feel his pulse racing, rapid beat, a throb at his pulse points: the back of his crania, his neck, the center of his chest, his thumbs, his wrist…

Stanford took a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to return to normal. He clenched his hands tight to ease the shaking. He'd done it so many times before, willed himself to not feel fear, to not feel emotions. It was as familiar and as simple as falling asleep. Then why was it so hard to make himself calm down? What was Bill playing at? What the hell did he think he was going to accomplish with this charade?

Stanford was startled, scared. He'd been scared before and he'd learned to concentrate on his intellect and let the irrational emotions ebb from his mind. But the blood that beat a rough staccato at his pulse points wasn't cold, wasn't leaving him chilled and anxious to run. He was burning; his clothes, his very skin, feeling tight. He felt faint as the perspiration dripped from his brow and down his neck. He would burn up if he lost control; it was always fire in the end with Bill. And with Stan.

It was ~~Stan~~ Bill who looked like Stan. Bill who wore the same face as his twin. Bill who spoke with the same voice, who had the same mannerisms, the same memories, the same sense of humor that had Stanford rolling with laughter even forty years later. But Stan was gone now. Only Bill remained. And Bill looked like Stan, and despite that, Stanford was still affected by the daemon. His body still responded to the monster that manipulated him, that put his family in danger, that killed his brother. God, what kind of sick creature was he? To still be attracted to that thing? To...still...love Bill? He did, didn't he? He still loved Bill, and nothing that had happened between them, nothing Bill had done was enough to break that. To finally squash that damnable flutter he felt whenever Bill was near. He couldn't kill that burst of affection that warmed his chest when he thought of his muse. He couldn't sever the hold Bill had over him, and the worst part was, he wasn't sure if that was what he really wanted.

He wanted to _want_ to leave Bill in his past, to move on and live his life, be with his family. But he had lived so much of his life obsessing over Bill. He’d spent what seemed like years working alongside him, calling him friend. Bill had been such a large part of his life, that a part of him didn't want to forget about Bill; still longed for the daemon’s touch, that it was a fight every waking moment to not give in and just let go. To just go to Bill and stay here with him, floating in the ocean, together. Just forget about everything. Forget about those waiting back home. It hurt to think that a part of him was so selfish as to separate himself from his family once again. And to what? What would Bill give him that he didn’t already have? What could Bill be for him that wasn’t already filled by the other people in his life.

And that was the sticking point; Bill had been the most important being in his life once. Bill encouraged him, engaged him, stretched his mind to the limits with concepts and theories and philosophy far beyond his own mortal understanding. They had been partners in every sense of the word. They worked and lived together, they talked about politics, advancements in mathematics and science. Bill would sit in the peripheries of his mindscape, even while Stanford was awake, and just _be_ there. Just spend time while Stanford worked, humming strange and alien music, occasionally making images for Stanford’s amusement out of the clouds and dusty mist that existed in the gap in Stanford’s mindscape. The gap, more a link or an overlap between Stanford’s mind and Bill’s; not really one mind of the other, but a place where both existed at the same time, in the same place.

They had also been intimate, or as intimate as you can get with a being that only exists as a projection into the mental plain. It had only happened once, but once was enough to hook Stanford. Enough to drug him, hypnotize him, and drown him in his already unhealthy obsession. Once was enough to leave him shaking and tingly and thoroughly debauched, although his physical body had remained untouched. It was difficult now to tell if it had been a dream built on years of sexual repression and culminating in a subconscious manifestation of his affection for Bill, or something Bill had actually projected into his mind as a way of keeping Stanford both focused on the project and completely emotionally reliant on Bill. It was a memory that, despite all attempts to repress it, had remained resolute and vibrant. And it still affected him.  

*~*NSFW*~*

Stanford had been distracted for two full days, unable to make any real advancements in the project while his mind kept wandering, while his trousers felt tight in all the wrong ways. He had been long past his formative teenage years where puberty and hormones controlled him like some base animal, but nothing he did could alleviate the low thrum of ‘want’. Everything even remotely attributed to sex flitted through his mind and disrupted his calculations, flinging numbers and variables this way and that as the flirty cashier from the corner market stripped for him, or Cathey Crenshaw from high school pulling down the top of her strapless dress to expose her (Stanford had been reluctant to admit he’d noticed) rather perky and sizable breasts, or the muscular boxer with a fuzzy face, large hands and a mouth Stanford was sure tasted of Pitt Cola and toffee, or the young undergrad that had grappled for his attention in grad school who had hidden beneath his desk one night to surprise him. Stanford had sent the boy home, but his hormone drugged mind filled in what would have happened if he hadn’t; a hot mouth and slick swipes of a tongue along his cock, a willing body on their knees, face pillowed between his thighs. The fantasy wasn’t constant (it never was); the undergrad’s short black hair grew long and faded to red, the moans coming from the boy’s throat increased in pitch until Stanford could feel Cathy trailing her perfectly manicured nails along his hips, then changed again, taking on a much rougher pitch, like gravel in a rock tumbler, making his cock throb and the hair darkened to a chocolate brown, boxing gloves thrown over the young man’s shoulder. He would knit his gingers into that mop of hair and thrust, and the subsequent groan would change yet again, becoming more smooth and sultry.

Stanford had been well in to the fantasy, palm pressed against the front of his trousers and hunched over the basement desk, when Bill had popped into his mind, pulling Stanford fully into the mindscape. The fantasy had dematerialized in an instant, Stanford dropping out of the now non-existent chair to float with his trousers around his knees and cock painfully erect, red, and throbbing, still slick with the imagined saliva from his fluctuating, illusory partner. A tense moment passed between them, Stanford’s mind still hazy from his exasperating distraction.    

“Heya there, Smart Guy. Need some help?” Bill’s voice had taken on the same chipper tone it always had, only this time, there was a slight veneer of curiosity. Stanford had instinctively made to cover himself, make himself decent in the face of his muse, but six ribbon-like tentacles erupted from Bill’s form and wrapped around each of his legs, his wrists, his waist, and his erection.

“Bill, what…?” But the question died on his lips as Bill lifted him closer; he could feel the tentacles writhing, twisting, and kneading against his exposed skin, his clothes having vanished without his noticing.

“No sweat Sixer, just let me handle this. You humans were always so weird with your physical needs. I never understood how you ever get anything done.” The tentacles started moving with purpose, tracing the line where his buttocks and thighs met, and coiling and uncoiling around his erection. One tentacle left his right arm loose and snaked over his chest to ghost over his nipples. Rubbing circles around the areola lightly before flicking the hardened bud. Stanford swallowed a squeak. He could feel something pool in his intestines. It was tingly, and warm…no, hot. Heat. It felt like his blood was rushing to his groin. His head felt light, his mind filled with random and unorganized thoughts. The tentacle wrapped loosely around his cock doubled up on itself; the lower girth still stroking his erection up and down while the probing tip inched its way back to his perineum, pausing to tease his testicles and tug gently as the pubic hair.

“Ooooohh.” Stanford couldn’t hold back the groan even if he had the mental focus enough to try. His hips jerked of their own accord. His mind blurred with questions, the words materializing and whizzing in the ether around them: _What, Bill? Why are you doing this? Holy Moses, that feels amazing! Why do this for me? Are you curious? Nnnhhhhh! God, I’d let you watch. I have before, right? You wanted to know what it felt like. But why participate now? What are you getting out of it?_ He felt a four-fingered hand cup his cheek and he tiled his head up, blinking through a lusty haze to gaze into the eyes, er, eye of his muse.

“Hey there, Sixer. You still with me?” Bill was amused. While the triangle had no mouth (or rather, his eye was both his eye and mouth), Stanford could tell Bill was smirking. The set of his eyelids were nearly as expressive as a pair of lips on humans. What would they taste like? Would they be soft? Would the lashes ringed around Bill’s eye feel ticklish as they inevitably fluttered across his face? He nipped at his lower lip, imagining the taste of Bill’s lips on his. He found himself wrapping the tentacles around his limbs further in an attempt to pull himself closer to Bill. The black appendages looping tighter around his arms and legs, the bulk of his weight held by the one wrapped around his waist and hips and gently prodding at his navel. His hips were still bucking into Bill’s touch, the constant shift in weight in this gravity-less void pushing him closer to the triangle until he heard Bill sigh and felt the tentacles draw him in. Stanford let out a soft groan when his body finally came into contact with Bill. 

Bill’s surface was warm and surprisingly soft, just as he remembered. Stanford pressed himself as close to Bill’s form as he could, his twelve fingers splayed and drawing patterns on Bill’s form. Bill had kept to a mostly human size, maybe slightly larger. Stanford’s arms, tugged loose from the tentacles, wrapped around the upper part of Bill’s form, holding the triangle tight against his body. He felt like he was on fire, and the cool temperature of Bill’s form did nothing to abate the heat. He hadn’t noticed that he had started mouthing and licking at Bill’s surface until his lust fueled brain registered that he was tasting what might be described as a spiked energy drink, something vaguely metallic, and something bitter that reminded him of sulfur or quinine. It was a flavor that was very quickly proving to be addicting.

“God, I…” Stanford couldn’t even pause in his ministrations long enough to speak. Instead, he just panted and moaned, feeling the sounds bubble up from his chest. It may have been wishful thinking, but he swore he felt Bill shudder. With every movement, his erection brushed against Bill’s warm surface. Here he was, Stanford Pines, so desperate and needy he was grinding against Bill, his muse, his friend, his teacher. Using the omnipotent deity for his own inferior carnal pleasure. His hips snapping with every thrust, erection bobbing between them, smearing precum and leaving slick trails over the triangle; the bowtie was quickly becoming damp. He couldn’t help it; Bill’s touch was electric. He needed it. God, but he needed it. But it wasn't enough. His lips worked their way to Bill’s eye, kissing and gently nipping at its perimeter. His fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises on Bill’s back if it was possible. The tentacle around his cock squeezed, and Stanford took the risk, bringing his lips to Bill’s eyelids in some semblance of a kiss.

Bill’s lips, really eyelids, were soft and supple, and the eyelashes didn’t get in the way as much as he expected. Stanford licked at Bill's lips, tracing the plush ridges, and nipping the bottom lip, holding it between his teeth. He wished Bill had a proper mouth, or a tongue, or something. He felt Bill pull away and couldn’t hold back a whimper at the loss.         

“Whoa, slow down there IQ. Knew you were inta weird stuff, but I didn’t think you were this depraved.” Bill punctuated his statement with a long slow stroke to Stanford’s cock with one of his actual hands. Stanford whined, throwing his head back and gasping as Bill pressed at the spot below the head, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine. He heard Bill hum and repeat the action. Through his haze, Stanford desperately tried to claw his way back to Bill; his fingertips just barely making contact with Bill’s face.

“Please…I want…” Stanford didn’t really know what he was asking for, not really. Maybe he just wanted to touch Bill, maybe he wanted to make Bill feel as good as the daemon was making him feel. Bill’s chuckle filled his ears the same moment his hands felt the plush warmth of Bill’s face, and he felt the tip of the tentacle massaging into his perineum creep further to brush over his entrance. Soft, and barely there, feather-like touch. Bill’s hand on his cock continued jerking, thumb swiping at the tip and smearing the beading precum. 

A litany of whimpers and panted exclamations of need passed his lips as his fingertips dug into Bill’s surface. “Ah, Ah, Ah, AH!” He was so close, but it was all so wrong. Here Bill was, giving him exactly what his body and mind needed, what his soul needed, an act of intimacy with the being he loved most, and Bill was getting nothing in return. He wanted to do something, something that would make Bill feel as good. If that was even possible. What if Bill’s kind didn’t do anything like this? What if there wasn’t any way for Stanford to reciprocate? Was Bill just helping him and getting nothing in return? The questions spiraled in his mind and clumped together like a heavy stone in his gut. A chill whipped through his blood stream and he felt is erection soften.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You’re overthinking this aren’t you?” The subtly glow accompanying Bill’s words made Stanford’s heart flutter. It made Bill look ever more like the divine being that Stanford believed him to be; it made Bill’s attentions to him, both academic and physical, all the more special because here was this perfect and omniscient being that actually went out of his way to spend time with Stanford.

Bill had spoken of creating a better world, one where the atrocities and injustices of the current world didn’t exist. One where every person was able to get by on their own merit rather than some lucky draw of the genetic or financial lottery. One where diversity and deformities like Stanford’s were celebrated, rather than ridiculed. One where he could…

Stanford felt a bizarre mix of longing, revulsion and fear itching at the back of his crania. It was strange. Something he wanted, something he couldn’t have and felt ashamed for wanting. He wanted Bill, and without the portal, he couldn’t ever really be with his muse. Some may think less of him for seeking such a relationship with something so dissimilar from humanity, but he felt no shame in desiring Bill; perhaps this shame stemmed from the fact that his desires were physical and not purely mental. He was weak to his baser emotions and physical needs just like any other human. But even still, Bill sought out _him,_ Stanford Pines, to share his infinite knowledge with. And Bill seemed to be enjoying this in some way, so there should be no shame felt. And there wasn’t really, other than he felt he should do something to reciprocate. It was absurd that these feelings were for anyone expect Bill; Bill was his whole world. Fiddleford was a friend, sure, but Bill was his friend, confidant, muse, and dare he say, now lover. Bill was everything, so, naturally, his emotional conflictions would stem from Bill…right?

“Hey, it’s gone soft again. Did you finish? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sorta fructose-dihydrotestosterone-enzyme acid mix that went with it? Human bodily functions are weird, I never really understood them. But I’m guessing you just got lost in that maze of a mind ya got there.” Bill waved at the words and questions floating around them, dispersing Stanford’s insecurities. Stanford felt his throat tighten. How to explain it? Could he?

“Or is it that I’m not doing it right? It that it?”

“What? No, no it was, God, it was great! I just…” Stanford took a steadying breath, “I want to do something for you. Something like…” Stanford, being uncharacteristically bold, lunged forward to capture Bill’s lips/lids in another kiss. He peppered Bill’s mouth with short, rough kisses, trying (and again wishing that Bill had one) to lap at his tongue. Bill could read his mind, right? He knew what Stanford wanted, but maybe he didn’t understand it? Or maybe he didn’t want to do this? Maybe he was just humoring the stupid little human? Maybe…

“Alright, I gottcha. I can’t exactly get that same thing out of this, but I can probably do something.” The tentacles, all at once, particlized and dropped out of existence. Instead, Bill grew several sizes and Stanford was being supported by three of Bill’s hands; one supporting his back, one gripping his slowly hardening cock, and one cupping his hips under his buttocks. One eager finger softly probing his entrance, this time with some slick residue.

Something large and black, with intimidating girth, smacked Stanford on the cheek, rubbing the same slick substance over his face. He nuzzled at it without thinking, before opening his eyes to stare at Bill questioningly.

“There. I tried to make something with the same nervous system and electrical feedback loop you humans have. Go ahead, give it a whirl.” Stanford stared at the...well, it _was_ supposed to be a penis, wasn't it? It looked far more like a fat tentacle that tapered slightly with a bulbus tip. Stanford could feel his mouth water. He'd never even thought of performing fellatio before – he'd never had the opportunity to entertain the idea – but he eagerly lapped at the head and shaft, letting his saliva drip down his chin. The pressed his tongue into the gap that was supposed to resemble the urethral opening and grinned when Bill moaned.  

“Whoa…..whoooooookay. So, so that's why you humans are obsessed with this, huh?” Bill shuddered and Stanford felt the newly formed shaft throb against his lips. But it was still more tentacle and prehensile than a human organ, and the surrealness and alien sensation sent a pulse of raw heat to his groin and Stanford bucked into Bill’s hand.

The tentacle pressed against his lips, wedging itself into his mouth and running over his tongue. It thickened gradually, open his jaw wide and forcing Stanford to swallow around it. He both heard and felt Bill moan. He could see a light shade of red pigment begin forming at Bill’s edges. His eye was closed and he was shaking. Stanford felt electric. To be able to pull a reaction like that out of Bill, to be the one, possibly the first, to make Bill feel this way. He swallowed hard, taking the tentacle as deep as he could, careful to not scrape his teeth. He swiped at the head with his tongue and heard Bill groan. “Oh man, I gotta get me a real body! This is great! Oh yeah! Laer rof siht yrt attog I. Siht ot desu teg dluoc I kniht. Tep taerg a ekam duoy. Uoy peek annog mi, snepo latrop taht nehw.” Bill eased a fingertip passed the ring of muscle, easing the way with the makeshift lube.

Stanford was too far gone to understand what Bill had said. Far too gone to understand much of anything besides the white heat in his veins. He whined. Hips still bucking into Bill’s hand and lips working their way up and down the shaft Bill created. Stanford came with a muffled scream around Bill’s cock. But Bill hadn't yet.    

Bill had been rough, and the power dynamic fluctuated back and forth between them. He would have had bruises, scratch marks, curved indents of teeth had they both been physically present. Bill had made himself a vulva, and Stanford had plunged in without hesitation. Bill had pushed into him while he simultaneously fucked Bill; the differing sensations, differing perspectives had been too much. His mind whited and he woke sweating and hunched over his desk, pants damn near dripping and papers stuck to his face with drying perspiration. The ink was smudged beyond all recovery, but Stanford could not bring himself to care. He never mentioned it to Bill, he didn't know what to say, how to approach the subject. He finally decided that if Bill wanted that again, they would do it, if he didn’t, then...well, Stanford would simply handle himself. He had plenty of fantasy material to work with.

*~*END*~*

Stanford shook his head free of the memory. He was sitting on his bunk below deck, he'd left Bill upstairs in the cabin. Stanford thought it must have been a dream now, because Bill had been too out of character with the being he knew. One bad thing about having an Eidetic memory, was that he remembered every detail, every touch, and it affected him just the same. Stanford shifted, feeling the tightness in his trousers. God, he was in his sixties, he was too old to be getting randy over memories of fantasies.

The worst part? He missed Bill. Missed being with the daemon. Missed talking to him, discussing the world, discussing life and the worlds and universes beyond this one. They would talk, about everything and nothing for hours, sometimes days. They would play interdimensional chess and D, D and MD for days. They would just sit in silence, Bill playing with the elements between space and Stanford working on expanding his notes, or working out his hypotheses for the strange things going on in Gravity Falls. He enjoyed Bill's company. He enjoyed being around the daemon, despite all the slightly off or disturbing things Bill was into. 

Bill had told Stanford of his family, his life before being ousted from his original dimension. Yes, Stanford knew that Bill was not a native to the Nightmare Realm, knew that Bill’s life in the gap between dimensions was wildly different and infinitely more fun than the boring life he lead as a merchant. And Stanford had told Bill about _his_ family, his parents his older brother, Sherman, and…and Stan. Stanley. His twin brother. His best friend for the first eighteen years of his life. The one person he thought he would spend the rest of his life with. The one person who loved Stanford for who he was, who never treated him like a freak. The one who's love and devotion nearly suffocated Stanford. The one Stanford had tried to protect, because Stanford wasn't...he wasn't safe. He wasn't safe to be around. He was…wrong, weird…a freak. And it wasn't just because of his hands.

Bill had understood. Bill had helped him redirect and harness these blasphemous feelings. Stanford never understood why, but he'd always wanted to...do...something…with Stan. _To_ Stan. Something he most definitely shouldn't. But it was so nebulous. So intangible, that he was never able to pin down and define what exactly he'd wanted from his twin. He terrified him when he was younger. He got jealous when Stan tried to make other friends, he got possessive over Stan’s time, always wanting to keep Stan with him, doing the things that he wanted. It got better as they got older; Stanford had been able to be content with Stan continuing boxing lessons, had been begrudgingly fine with Stan dating Carla. But he was never able to isolate why he felt like that. He wanted companionship, a friend, a confidant. Someone who could keep up with him, who had the same thirst for adventure and knowledge he did.

He had wanted to go to college both to expand his knowledge and opportunities for discovery, but also because, while Stan’s devotion to Stanford was suffocating, his own tenuous feelings about Stanley were driving him to asphyxiation. He never thought he would get over it, but then, miracle of miracles, Stanford had found Gravity Falls…and Bill Cipher. Bill had fit that need for companionship so much better than Stan ever could. And he felt safe around Bill, like he wasn't taking advantage, wasn't moments from doing something unforgivable and irreversible to harm Stanley. Like his wretched mind had finally calmed down and he could think clearly for the first time in nearly two decades. Bill had set him free from a nameless demon and gave him exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Now, Bill looked like Stan. And Stan was gone, and even after forty years, he still didn't know what it was he felt for Stanley, only that his demons had never been banished. He had never been freed. They had simply lied in wait, biding time. Ready to rear its head back from the repressive portion of his mind.

His feelings for both Bill and Stanley clashed in his chest, in his mind. Beating against the walls of his crania and kicking at his ribcage until he swore he felt bruises. These feelings wared with one another, so similar and so different. In a perfect world, both would exist, and both would be safe, and his relationship with them would be definable. _No, in a perfect world you would have gone to West Coast Tech, Stan would have never been homeless and you would have never even heard of Bill Cipher or Gravity Falls and never had the audacity to think you could change the world by building an interdimensional portal to an unstable universe._ Stanford felt his jaw ache from pressure, gritting his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn’t shatter. Then he would have to get dentures or an implant. He shuddered. Nope, not even in self-deprecating fantasy would he stoop that low. He licked at his teeth as if to sooth away the potential damage. Stanford’s posture sagged and he flopped sideways on to the bunk. His feelings for both men (could Bill be referred to by masculine terms?) warred because now, it seemed, that Stan had been absorbed by Bill, possessed by Bill. Now…now they were the same.

No, they weren’t. Stanley may be the embodiment of every negative quality that grated on Stanford’s nerves, but Stan was _NOT_ that same as Bill. Never. Bill was a monster, and sure, his brother was sketchy on the best of days, but the man wore his golden heart on his sleeve and was a hopeless romantic. He was tender-hearted and kind, almost to a fault. And Stanford loved his brother. Wanted to be more like Stan, more open, trusting; his nameless feelings for Stan be damned. He could _never_ be like Bill. Ever.         

But that didn’t matter now. His feelings didn’t matter anymore, for Stan, or for Bill. And it didn't matter that Bill wore Stan's face, that had been clearly evident by his reaction earlier. It didn't matter that Bill acted so much like his brother in an attempt to break him. It didn't matter that looking at Bill brought more than just a little pain to his chest.

But it could. It could matter. Stanford could fight it. He could control his feelings and pretend nothing affected him, that Bill no longer had any effect on him. He could suppress this. He had to. He had to be strong in the face of adversity. He was just surprised at Bill's actions, he wasn't expecting it. He had his guard down, a mistake he wouldn't be risking again. Whether Bill was Stanford's captor or his prisoner, it didn't matter. They were here, for as long as it took to fix this, to save his brother, if it was even still possible. They were here until he could bring Stan back, or they were here forever. If Bill ever tried to leave, to get back to shore, Ford would sink the boat. He would mix a chemical explosive and blow it up. Kill them both. Maybe. Maybe then he would give in, when it didn't matter. In the last few moments. Maybe he would go to Bill and give himself to the monster, let himself be taken by the beast, let himself give in to this godforsaken need. But not yet. And maybe not ever. But if…

Stanford had to be ok with _if._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan found himself standing on deck, leaning over the railing, and staring into the inky black water below. He'd really gone and done it this time, hadn't he? He just had to lose control of himself at the worst possible time. He wanted Sixer to trust him, to be his brother again, to see him as as something other than a monster. Instead, Stan thought he’d seen the thin wisp of arousal in Ford – had inanely thought that something would come out of it and that Ford would be receptive – and acted on it. And now Stanford was downstairs hating Stan-Bill and himself all the more.

It hurt to see Sixer like this. It hurt to know that Sixer still loved him, but loved the part of him that Stan hated. It hurt that he, as both Bill and Stan, loved Ford, but he couldn't act on anything without turning their already unhealthy relationship into an even more twisted impression of what it was supposed to be. He could feel Sixer’s agony, his desire. His memories. (God, he remembered that night with wicked clarity, feeling only approximate sensations while in Sixer’s mindscape.) Ford wanted to act on it. Wanted to fall into Stan’s embrace and throw caution and all sense to the wind. But only if Stan was Bill. Only if it was Bill that fanned the icy blue flames that threatened to consume him. Stan wasn't Bill. And if it was the last selfish thing he ever did, he never would be again. Even for Ford.  

Stan had to block his mind off from Stanford's, think of something else, something stronger than the thoughts whirling in his brother's head. He tried to just let Stanford's thoughts drone on as background noise, white fuzz. But it wasn't always easy, he couldn't always drown out Sixer's fears. Or his desires.

That was how he’d ended up like this, wasn't it? Because he just couldn’t say no? He just had to be curious, just had to play with his new puppet and drown in it. He remembered the first time he’d become curious. IQ was so unusual compared to other humans, but even he was subject to life’s baser needs. What would the mind of someone like Stanford Pines be like when all defenses were lowered? What would feeling it, experiencing it first hand, be like? Sixer had let him. Stan pressed his forehead into the cold metal of the railing, the memory as clear as it was decades (or was it now months with the folded timeline) ago.

*~*NSFW*~*

IQ had made the deal and had granted Bill permission to inhabit his mind and control his body. The first few moments, the first rush of adrenaline and he couldn’t help the gleeful delight that bubbled up inside Sixer’s body. He’d laughed. Sixer had laughed. It had been momentous and wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Sixer had given him full permissions. Not that he needed it (he’d planned on taking over IQ’s body whenever he needed to), but it was still nice to have. The truth was, physical form, the kind that organic life takes, was kinda awkward. He had inhabited a human body before, but never long enough to require taking care of its needs. Breathing was strange, the rush of air coming into this gaping hole in this body to fill two large and fleshy sacks, the exchange of gasses and then pushing the majority of the air back out again. It was horridly disgusting and inefficient and unnecessary. There were creatures in this dimension that could absorb the required gases from the air through their skin, why couldn’t humans do that? Blinking was fine, a bit strange that it was partly involuntary, but relatively normal. Digestion was creepy. In a good way, but still, the feeling of Sixer’s insides churning and moving and wriggling had him stop writing and just sit. The feeling was so unique and novel that he just sat there, wrapping Sixer’s arms around his gut and just…feeling this body function. He was tempted to try and cut himself open and start prodding at the stuff inside, but he didn’t have the same abilities he had in his own dimension while possessing something. And he liked IQ. He’d have a chance to play with his puppet when the portal was completed. Then, he could explore human functions all he wanted, with no limits. In the meantime, Bill had just experienced things through Ford. It was all so disgustingly exciting. The thrill of discovery of new feelings. 

His foray into human waste processes was also disturbingly fascinating. He had nagged at Sixer to let him experience it. To, as soon as Ford had felt the urge to pass waste, let Bill take over and just learn how it felt. Human experiences, while simple enough to understand, were still fascinating because as a being of Flatland, human functions were something he couldn’t do, could never experience. So, he had begged, and Ford had finally relented and let Bill used the toilet.

He instantly regretted it. It felt so so wrong and uncomfortable and the smell was,…just, nope. Nope he was NEVER doing that again. Sixer had woken to find himself naked and wet, laying on his bed when Bill had given control back. Not having the necessary coordination to properly clean himself, Bill had decided to bathe Sixer (the man needed it if Bill’s new sense of smell told him anything) and clean up any and all of that nasty human waste. Ford had, embarrassingly, guessed what happened, and had laughed at him. Laughed!

But, despite the rather horrid experience, and the embarrassment, Bill still wanted to experience what humans were like. And so had spied on Sixer while he worked, catalogued his actions, his movements, his functions based on which ones intrigued him the most. Urination was out – too close to that other one – eating and drinking were on the table, but only if Bill got to choose what to try. Running was something Bill hadn’t gotten the hang of yet, walking was hard enough. Sitting and writing were easy, and sleeping was not something he could really do as the human body’s way of dealing with the mind while unconscious, forcefully ejected Bill. He really wanted to try falling, but he might have to wait until he got another willing puppet; falling tended to be fatal. Burning alive too, and drowning. He could try stabbing himself, but it would have to be something small, like a needle or a pen, so as not to harm Sixer too much, or to scare the man off. It was so much better having a willing puppet than a non-consenting one.    

But the one thing he wanted to try and wrap his mind around, what the reason humans (males, anyway) yanked at that organ between their legs so often. Even his Sixer did it (though not often) so there must be something to it. He’s made up his mind to knock that off his list first. He didn’t have to wait too long, maybe a week or two. 

He’d found his puppet sprawled out on the sofa, head cradled by the decorative pillows. Sixer’s clothes were split open down the middle; his coat and shirt unbuttoned and pushed to the sides, his tie loosened and draped over one shoulder. He could probably tug at the tie and cut off Sixer’s airflow, but the sounds his pet was making were making his insides wriggle again. Sixer’s pants were split too, and pushed down around his knees. The thing that passed waste water was bright red and swollen and Sixer’s six fingers were tightly wrapped around it, rubbing in mayonnaise, no wait, it smelled like flowers, so lotion. Unless mayonnaise smelled like flowers. No, it was definitely lotion, in this dimension at least. He sat down on the bunch of Sixer’s pants to really get a good look. He wasn’t really there, just a projection – one that took far too much energy which is why he used the representations of himself in the third dimension more often than not – but he still could move around and see things. In order to feel things though, he needed to possess something. He was content to just watch, for now.    

Two of Sixer’s fingers were slipping in and out of his mouth, pressed together to make one. He was sucking on them, caressing the sides and tips of his fingers with his tongue, nipping delicately at the skin with his teeth. Sixer’s teeth were healthy, as far as human teeth went. He brushed and cleaned and flossed and gargled that weak antiseptic to keep his mouth clean and free of foreign bacteria. It was fascinating to watch the man who would frequently forget to shower and eat, spend so damn long making sure his mouth was devoid of any debris.

Sixer had a pathological fear of losing his teeth. The nightmare he’d had as a child had burned its image into Sixer’s psyche, so much so that Ford had developed a complex about his teeth. He had given IQ a dream where he’d gone through a completely normal and boring day, starting with drinking coffee, eating breakfast, reading an article on thermoplastic properties of a new joint implant, going to his lab, and performing absolutely dull and mind-numbing calculations, pausing for lunch and dinner, reading a self-indulgent bodice ripper novel while drinking tea before going to bed and taking out his dentures. Sixer’s scream was heard for a literal mile! Oh, that had been fun. Although the next day, Sixer had brushed and flossed his teeth until they bled and Bill had forcibly possessed his body to get him to stop.

With all the effort he put in, Sixer had perfect teeth. Canines a slight point, molars perfectly formed and cusps all in the right places. His bite was impeccable, perfectly even and practically reflected light when he smiled. Those teeth were now being used to bite and scrape along his fingers while he ran his hand over that organ most human males have. What was it called…a pancreas? Yeah, that was it. Sixer had a big one, too. He moved down off his perch to sit in the divot of Sixer’s hip. Sixer should really get out in the sun more, he was super pale. Red was a better look on him; like his cheeks. Sixer’s cheeks were beautifully red like fire, and the color was creeping up to his ears

Sixer didn’t do this often. He had watched enough humans to know that they did things like this a lot, way more than was necessary. It was bizarre; their bodies didn’t require them to do this, not like breathing and digesting, but humans seemed to engage in this kind of activity as though it kept them alive. Some even resorted to violence to get it; which was absolutely ridiculous, but there you have it. Humans were ridiculous, and bizarre and unnecessary. But his Sixer didn’t seem to have the same problems as other humans. His Sixer didn’t engage in this activity like other humans did, and certainly he didn’t seek out other humans to engage with. It was…intriguing. If even his pet was bound to this practice, then what was it like? What drew humans to do this so frequently as to develop whole parts of their culture around it? He was pulled out of his musings by the startled sounds coming from his puppet.

Sixer gasped, gripping his teeth together and following the motion of his hand with a jerk of his hips. The two fingers he had been sucking on now danced across his chest and started pinching at those vestigial nubs. Ford let out a particularly vocal sigh as his back arched and he followed through with a hip roll. It was enough for Bill, he wanted to see what was so great about prodding at oneself, and now was the perfect opportunity. 

Bill entered Sixer’s mind, not possessing his body, just lingering on the edges of his consciousness, just present enough that if Ford stopped to pay any attention, he would notice. But it was unlikely that old Fordsy was going to notice anything right now. Not with the burly boxer hogging all his attention. Oh, Bill knew who it was, even if Sixer didn’t. Even if the face was blurry and the body was a bit slimmer than reality, and Sixer refused to call out a name. In Sixer's mind, The Boxer, (because that's what old Fordsy had taken to calling him) was over top of him, braced with one hand on the couch cushions and the other wrapped around Ford's pancreas. Was that right? Bill was sure before, but now it sounded wrong. Either way, The Boxer had taken one of Ford's chest lesions into his mouth and was licking it, mimicking Ford's actions in the physical world. In his mind, Ford had pulled their hips together by snaking one six fingered hand down The Boxer's shorts. Ford rolled his hips again and Bill heard The Boxer chuckle, voice like gravel and strangely muffled. Man, Sixer was really repressed, wasn't he? Bill could feel the lingering sense of intangible wrongness dance in the void around them, even as he continued to imagine tasting Pitt Cola on the man's lips. The lingering doubt was causing Ford to lose focus; The Boxer was flickering in and out and Ford's movements slowed.

Maybe he should gain IQ’s attention? He eased his way slowly into Ford's consciousness, sitting atop the faceless man's head and staring Ford dead in the eye. Or, would be, if Sixer would open those baby blues of his. The image was still flickering as Stanford again questioned why this fantasy felt so wrong. Bill sprawled out on The Boxer's brown hair and reached out a hand beeped Sixer's nose. Stanford's blue eyes snapped open, vision clearing for just a moment as the features of illusionary man above him came into focus. Bill couldn’t have that. He yanked on Sixer’s hair, bringing the human’s attention back to him, and blurring The Boxer’s face once again.

“Bill…?” The whisper boomed in the ether. With no eyebrow to speak of, Bill quirked his eyelid and gave Sixer an obvious apprising look before meeting the human’s gaze again. “Hey there, Smart Guy. Mind if I watch?” Though he posed it as a question, Bill made it very clear he was not asking permission as he made himself comfortable in the chocolate brown fluff on The Boxer’s head.

However, his perch flickered and vanished a moment later, sending him down to bounce on Sixer’s exposed torso, sitting between his…pectorals? – he really needed to brush up on his human anatomy, or humans in this dimension anyway – with his legs sprawled. He felt a vibration pass through him as Sixer chuckled.

“Still curious? I can give you a proper run down of all the biochemical reactions that are happening if you want.” Sixer had let go of himself, hands coming up to scoop up the tiny triangle and lift him back to a floating position above his left shoulder. Bill, with an indignant huff, squirmed out of Sixer’s grasp and plopped back down on on the bunch of Ford’s trousers.

“I’ll watch from here.”

“Uhhh, sure. Well, um, right now my body is reacting to mental stimulus and my parasympathetic nervous system is increasing my heart rate to increase blood flow to, erm…my…groin area, and the nerve endings are sending signals back to my brain to increase signal conduits in the area. It also is sending feedback on external stimulus, namely my hand, and the result is the release of nitric oxide into the blood stream around….the, uh…penis.” Yeah, yeah, he knew all that alre…wait, penis?

“I thought it was called a pancreas.” Wasn’t it?

“Umm, no,” Stanford seemed confused that Bill could get that wrong, “that’s the organ that sits below the liver and produces both digestive and cellular metabolism hormones.”

“Oh. Well how was I supposed to know what you humans call your parts. I don’t have any of that.” And possessing humans to get what he wanted didn’t count.

“Hence the lesson. Now where was I…oh, right, nitric oxide in the blood stream causes the spongy tissue…”

Bill tuned him out. He really did know all of this already. Theoretically, anyway. So, he was confused as to what organs belonged to which names; there were an infinite number of universes out there with an infinite number of organ combinations. He couldn’t keep track of everything. Sixer had trailed off in his scientific explanation, instead opting for biting back gasps as he picked up where he’d originally left off.   

He could hell that Sixer was trying his best not to bring any fantasies to mind; smacking them away as quickly as they came into focus. It was adorable how much Sixer was trying to be scientific about this for him. But that wasn't why he was here. He knew what happened chemically, hormonally, and physically. He was here to try and experience what it felt like, why humans engaged in this activity so often as to prevent real scientific advancement. Why humans had purposefully stalled in the advancement of civilization because they couldn’t last a few days without finding a mate or spending an hour or four touching their bodies. Why Sixer was, dolefully, no exception. Did he expect Sixer to be an exception? No, not really, but he couldn’t deny that he had hoped. He held Stanford in high regards; no other puppet had been as intelligent, had kept his attention, had been as fun to be with as Stanford Pines. So, what did Sixer get out of this?

“And….ahhh, as the process continues, the heart rate and blood p-pressure continue to-to rise…and…”

“Hey, IQ. Why don’t you cut it with the commentary? I think some firsthand experience would work better.”

“Huh?” It was clear that Stanford had been reciting the process out of a memorized textbook and had not actually been focused on a proper explanation. “Oh, um, sure. Just…ahhhhhh, just take over when you think you want to. I’ll…ohhhhhhh….” But he didn’t finish, instead letting out a long sigh and rolling his hips, flinging Bill into the air. Stanford was close to the big finish Bill had seen in so many humans before. Now was the time.        

In the final few moments before Stanford’s body arched, and his abdominal muscles tightened sending wave after wave of euphoria through his body and protein rich enzymes to coat his navel, Bill took control of Sixer’s body to ride out the orgasm. His control hadn’t lasted long, Sixer’s body passed out shortly after it begin to relax, ejecting Bill from the mind and back into the room as an astral projection. Even without a physical form, he still felt tingly, and light, and just overall like he imagined what coming through the portal would feel like. Okay, so maybe there was something to this mating thing after all.     

It was less than a month later that they had their, ‘encounter’ in the mindscape, and Bill put his knowledge to good use. Stanford had been ecstatic.  

*~*END*~*

Stan groaned in misery when he felt the heat in his jeans. _Damnit. Well, guess pills aren’t gonna be a problem anytime soon._ He did his best to adjust the position of his traitorous erection when he caught a whiff of tension wafting off of Ford and snaking like a genital caress into his mind. He slammed that window closed and kept his hands gripped to the very cold, very real, and very grounding metal railing until it hurt.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. **_He_** wasn't supposed to be like this. He could almost forgive his desire for Sixer as Bill - Sixer was his obsession and was so unique and fascinating, the one being who outsmarted him - but his human desires, while Sixer was his own flesh and blood? He couldn't forgive that. No one could. He couldn't tell you when it started, when he began to think of Stanford as something more than a brother. He does know that it went from hypothetical thoughts and fading dreams to continuous and agenizing need that plagued his every moment with thoughts so vivid and loud he was sure that Stanford would know he was obsessing over that fucking kiss.

What had Sixer been thinking? What had _he_ been thinking? Sure, Sixer had offered, but Stan had said yes. Stan hadn't stopped it. Had been so God Damn ready to keep going when Ma had caught them. They had both been thinking about that couple they saw on the beach and trying to parse out what it might mean for them, but Stan couldn't let it go. And then Sixer had been so accommodating, so damned supportive, wanting to help Stan experience something in a safe place. Stan had lost himself that night. Lost every chance he may have had to get over his brother, lost himself in shame and guilt that swallowed him like quicksand. And he suffocated in it. Sixer had once called Stan suffocating; if he was, then Sixer was cutting off Stan’s air with twelve beautiful fingers. Because Stan’s feelings for Ford were crushing his throat, his chest, with their weight, with their revolting and biting claws like needles.

No, that wasn't true. Not exactly. Yes, Stan’s feelings were suffocating, but he had never really felt revulsion at them. Stan wanted to be repulsed by them, because maybe then there might be some hope of salvation. There might be some dignity, some humanity left clicking away in his ancient ticker. That maybe he was really human now, and finally deserving of redemption for everything he had done in a past life. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. He used to be. Back when he had been just a teen and had no fucking clue how the world actually worked and he’d been so scared of losing his best friend. He used to care, used to feel shame. But thirty years of living with these feelings, thirty years of loving someone – then to realize it’s been a hell of a lot longer – the bite of shame fades until even the dull ache is hardly noticeable. After thirty years of living in his brother’s house, reading his brother’s notes, and clinging to that last shred of hope that he might get his brother back from that hell, shame just hadn’t been a top priority. He’d put his qualms and apprehensions on the proverbial back burner, and the flames had just died with time.

It was only now that Stan knew that Stanford had his own misgivings about him. Bill had seen into Sixer's dreams, his twisted desires, those hidden from his conscious mind. Ford had…been possessive of Stan. Had fought with himself over how much he wanted to play into Stan’s loyalty. Not consciously, no, Sixer was sharp as a Carbon-18 Obsidian blade form Caladon 4, but the man was dumb as a post when it came to some simple observations. Sixer had wanted him. Wanted Stan, but was so immersed in the culture in the early 60’s that he hadn’t even recognized it. Instead, he had tried to escape Glass Shard, and thought Stan hadn’t known it at the time, had probably saved them both. Stan had been such a bad influence on his brother, always egging him on, encouraging them to get into trouble. It was no wonder that Stan’s feelings had, in a way, rubbed off on Sixer. He just didn't know how much it had bothered his brother until now. How much Sixer had been frightened by his indeterminant feelings. How much he ended up hating himself over it when he pushed Stan away.

They grew more and more distant after the night Ma caught them. Spending less time together, working less on the Stan 'O War, spending more time away from home, away from their room, away from Stan. When the science fair was announced and the seniors were asked to submit project ideas at the beginning of the year, Ford had thrown himself into it. Working endlessly in the library, the school shop and digging through discarded electrical components that Pops had decided were too far gone to even sell as salvage. Ford didn't even ask Stan to help welding the perpetual motion machine together even though Ford sucked at welding and machining was that only class Stan was passing. Stan should have known then that something was wrong, but he was too wrapped up in his own guilt and trying to squash his own feelings to see that his brother was pulling away from him.

Stanford's decision to distance himself from Stan had probably been the smartest thing he had ever done. Because Stan knows himself. Hates, detests, and loathes himself, every part of himself. But he does know himself. And he knows that he wouldn't be able to let Sixer go. Even if he wanted to try. Stan was weak, no sense of self control. He would have kept Stanford from the moment Sixer let him. Brother, or puppet, it didn't matter when, Stan and Bill would have kept Stanford for himself, forever. He was selfish, no amount of time or life changed that. He was selfish and had no self-discipline. 

It took everything he had to sit himself down every night for thirty years and learn physics and mathematics to fix the portal. To learn how it worked. To build and program that damn bio-scanner. He's still not sure how he did that one; a whirlwind of freaky gnome herb inspired madness and he woke up with the plans and codes scribbled out on sheets of paper, cardboard, whatever he had handy. A few times while inputting the damn program code, he even had flashes of memories writing it. He once thought that he had been given help from some divine being, later thought to have been the same one that contacted his brother. The thought was so horribly laughable now.

It was so trippy, being segmented like this. Being, in a way, two people in one. There weren't two minds in his head, not two personalities, but the different set of memories that until recently had been separated, were clashing. Bill knew things about Stan and Sixer that Stan didn't, and having two different perspectives of the same events make his eyes twitch and he felt his eyes shift again. He'd given up trying to stop it from happening. There wasn't much of a point anymore; it used to bother Sixer, but like all things weird and anomalous, Stanford had just grown used to it.

Sixer had even stopped having nightmares. His subconscious mind was calm, his sleep uninterrupted. Stan had stopped meddling in Sixer’s dreams weeks ago. His brother slept soundly, still fell asleep watching Stan across the room. Stan still woke every morning looking into his brother’s eyes. Despite whatever happened during the day, the twilight hours before sleep and just after waking were calm, almost intimate between them. Stanford was almost like a different person then, treated Stan like Stan was different. Stan had woken one morning to Ford brushing the hair out of his eyes, Ford’s six fingers trailing over his brow and down his cheek. His fingertips felt electric on Stan’s skin. They had laid there, just watching one another until Stan had been overcome with the urge to pee and had gotten up, breaking the spell, and ruining the moment. Ford was in the main cabin when Stan was done. These quite moments between them, it was almost as if Ford still loved him. But Sixer didn't see Stan when he looked at him. No. Sixer saw Bill.  

And Sixer loved _him_. Had loved Bill, still did. But Stan wasn't Bill anymore. He wasn't sure if he could be again, but even so, he didn't want to be. He didn't want to be that monster again. Remembering all the atrocities he committed, all the lives he had taken just because he was bored, it was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart.

Yes, Ford had wanted Stan, once upon a time. But he hadn’t recognized it for what it was, and instead had attributed it to feelings of possession and control, and had let the guilt and shame wash over him and then repressed it. Buried it in his subconscious waiting for Bill to find it. And as repressed as Ford was, part of him still thought about his brother and the possibility of what would have happened that night if they hadn’t been interrupted. A small part of him wanted Stan. But Sixer, despite everything, wanted Bill more. Stan wanted to be what his brother wanted, was willing to change if only Ford would love him, romantically, platonically, he didn't care. But this, becoming that beast again just to please his brother…he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. No force in heaven or Earth could make him be that monster again. Not even Stanford. Not even…

Stan was weak and selfish and undisciplined. He would break, it was only a matter of time.

But now was not the time to be worried about this. He had something special planned for Christmas for the twins and Poindexter. He had been practicing for days now, if he could pull this off, well, he hoped that maybe it would be enough to convince the kids that he was still himself. That he still loved them. That he still loved all of them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night so as not to bother them on Christmas Eve. He should probably get some sleep if he could. Tomorrow night was going to wipe him out, but it was all going to be worth it.


	18. Fear and Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford deals with his own comflicting feelings and talks with the children. Stan has a panic attack over his uncontrolled impulses. They play with the children in the mindscape, and Bill finally snaps.  
> EDIT: I forgot to put a warning up here. There is a brief description of a botched teleportation where Stan get really, really hurt. I do kind of describe it (though not in real detail). Just a heads up, and I'm sorry to those that read this already. I wont forget next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only explanation for it being two weeks is work takes all my energy and I lose all drive to write. But I did it, I finished. And I'm already working on the next chapter. I really got to go to work now. Thanks for reading.

-Two Days Before Christmas-

Stanford had been avoiding his brother as much as he could on such a tiny ship. The night before had been distressingly tense. Bill had given him a pointed look, staring him down as he stood in the doorway blocking the only exit to the room. Stanford had held his ground, back tucked up against the hull and doing his best to keep the panic from showing on his face. He was well aware that Bill knew what he had been thinking. Well aware that he would likely never again be able to keep any secrets from the daemon. What he didn’t understand was how. How had Stan been able to infiltrate his mind. Stanford had a metal plate in his head to keep Bill out. Bill couldn’t possess him, could only mess with his dreams, couldn’t enter his mind unless Stanford let him. Unless Stanford took the initiative and shook his…hand…

Had he? He had cast his mind back searching for an instance in the past weeks where he might have taken Stanley hand. It didn’t make sense. How could Bill see into his mind without making the deal? How could Bill wield so much power whilst in human form? Stanford spent the better part of the night tossing and turning the questions over and over in his head. The only thing that might work to prevent further mind invasion was the moonstone ritual, but getting a hold of unicorn hair in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle was less than hopeless and he wasn't going to just up and ask Stan to make it. Er…um...Bill, to make it.      

Their usual nightly ritual was, instead of intimate and calm, filled with awkward silence and eventual shifting and avoiding eye contact. The slept opposite directions, Stanford opting to sleep with his head pointed away from the door. Bill had made no comment, simply watched him until Stanford turned his back and tried to sleep. He could still feel the yellow eyes boring into his back. He fell asleep rubbing idlily at the Vegvisir band safely back around his wrist. 

 Stanford had woken exceedingly early to work on his notes. Not that there was much to do or write anymore. He had hit another roadblock in his research. He’d come to the conclusion that Bill couldn’t be permanently harmed, unless he wanted to be or he chose to not heal himself. He still had difficulty making things appear that didn’t fall under items that served instinctual needs: food, water, personal hygiene. About the only thing they kept that Stan had made was Herman, and despite being a product of Bill’s magic, Stanford didn’t have the heart to kill the little tree, even if it learned to toss paper balls at his head while working. The notes he had been taking the night before were just perfunctory logs on the goings on of the week, performing brief calculations on the rate of metabolism of both he and Stan while sitting out at sea doing nothing. If they kept this up, he didn’t like their chances of making it past eighty. Even now, completing his logs from the night before, there wasn't much more to say or do. Not unless he wanted to try for the moonstone spell. They had stopped the experiments, stopped the testing. Stanford hadn't been able to create anymore hypotheses in the days after he’d tried to poison Stan…

God. He'd started calling him Stan again. At least in his own head. But it was Bill, but Bill was so much like Stan. It was splitting his head and chest apart to wrap himself around it. He needed a distraction. Something, anything, to focus on besides this. When he was young and wanted to run away from his work, he'd play Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons...or find Stan and see what trouble they could get into. Heh. Stanford felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Maybe he should try and video chat with Mason. They wouldn’t be able to call the twins on Christmas, so a brief call might be in order. And Bill seemed to be avoiding him just as much.

***

The jingle of the video call cut out after the second ring.

“Great Uncle Ford! Is everything okay?! Are you alright? Did anything happen?” The boy's face was alarmed and the questions were a rapid-fire assault on Stanford's already taxed mind.

“Huh? What? No, nothing's wrong. Why…I mean, I’m fine. Everything's fine. More or less, anyway.” The last part was mumbled as Stanford scratched at his nape.

“Really? Because you never actually call anymore. Just e-mails and texts. And we just…” Mason was roughly pushed out of the way as Mable brought her face up to the camera. “We were just worried that you’d capsized or something. Or disappeared like all those boats and planes do. You are alright, right? And Grunkle Stan, er….I mean…I mean…” She trailed off, unable to say the name out loud. He could understand their hesitation. To say it aloud would be admitting it was true. But there was no point in denying it, not even for their sakes.

“Bill.” Stanford’s voice was tight and, despite the tumult of emotions he felt, carried no other distinctions.    

“Yeah.” Mabel’s voice was small and fragile and she shied away from the camera

“How...” A gulp “How is…he?” Mason did his best to speak for them both, knowing Mabel was struggling to cope with the loss of her uncle. 

“I’ve been sending you daily updates as to his condition.” Mabel huffed at her uncle’s detached and factual way of updating them. She eagerly awaited each text or e-mail, but always groaned and rolled her eyes when she read the flat and emotionless text.  

Subject exhibits no physical change. Made breakfast of pancakes and eggs (used magic to re-fill flour tin). Mended socks and my shirt manually (why is he not using magic? Does he not have full control?) Caught two fish for dinner. Refused to prepare them due to the last incident. No further reports to the state of his healing ability. All tests have been postponed after Experiment 34 with a synthetic bio-corrosive of my own making. Subject ingested enough to render a normal human dead. Subject’s body rejected the corrosive and removed the toxin through autonomic functions. Subject’s vitals returned to beginning levels twelve hours after contact.

“Ok, yeah, but _how is he?_ ” Neither one had been in direct contact with Stan since the night the Stan O’War left Iceland. They knew all the science stuff, they wanted to know how Stan was emotionally. And Stanford knew that. The trouble was he didn’t know himself. Stan was acting like everything was normal, and that Stanford was just sitting in the Bermuda Triangle to study any anomalies that swam by. Stan had even mentioned that he should be taking notes and paranormal readings while they were there. Stanford had ignored him.

“For the sake of making conversation…” Stanford sighed, bracing his face in his hands and pinching to bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he could feel was starting. “He’s…himself, as far as I can tell. Or, at least, what I mean by that, is that he’s acting like Stan. As usual. He’s spent most of the day yesterday sitting on deck being a poor fisherman. I can’t tell what his emotional state is because I can’t get into his head. And Bill has a habit of explosive emotional outbursts, so predicting him is not a worthwhile effort. But so far there has been nothing. Nothing…erm, nothing unusual to report. Other than…” Stanford knew that trailing off would only pique their curiosity, but he didn’t want to worry them. And there really wasn't anything to it. He just had a bad habit of thinking aloud. This is really all the call to the kids was, an excuse to use them as a sounding board for all of his stupid conjectures. But they didn’t deserve that. They didn’t need to worry about every little concern that crossed his mind. They had their own problems to focus on. 

“Other than…what?” Mason dug through something off screen and produced a notepad filled with scribbles.

“Really, kids, it’s nothing. It’s just an odd sort of thing I noticed.” He doubted his deflections would actually accomplish anything. The kids were nothing if not persistent.

“Well, what sort of odd thing? You promised no more secrets. So, what are you not saying?” Mable had pushed back into frame and was looking really upset at the notion that Stanford would have kept some critical piece of information from them. She was right, though. He had promised that he would no longer keep any secrets from them. No if it was important. He would probably end up telling them about his past relationship with Bill before long, but he would spare them that information as long as he could. It wasn't relevant yet, and as long as it wasn't, he was going to keep it to himself. He sighed again. He was the one that sought them out, he had no right to clam up.  

“Bill can…read my mind. Nothing he was not ever able to do before, but…”

“But…?” The twins say in unison.

“Well…” He scratched at the back of his head, “Dipper, do you remember when I told you I had a metal plate installed to keep Bill from possessing my mind?”

He watched as Mable’s eyes grew to the size of saucers and look back and forth between her brother and her uncle. Mason nodded, “Yeah”.

“Well, the reason I was held prisoner during Weirdmageddon was because I knew how to dispel the barrier keeping Bill and his magic inside the boundaries of Gravity Falls.” That wasn't the only reason, but again, the kids didn’t need to know about that just yet. “But I refused to give it to him. He could mess with my dreams, but he couldn’t enter my mind unless I made another deal with him, allowing him to bypass the metal plate.”

“So, what. Bill can read your mind now? Did you make a deal? Grunkle Ford!” Mabel was clutching at her hair and looking like she was panicking. Stanford raised his hand to the camera and tried to set her mind at ease. 

“I didn’t make any deals. I never shook his hand. Bill, by all understandings, should have no ability to enter my mind or hear my thoughts…but he does. And I don’t know what to do about it.” 

They sat in a tense silence, each mulling this new information over and doing their best to come up with some explanation or solution. Stanford knew that these kids were much more insightful than they seemed, and that they were his family, that he could, nay, _should_ trust them, but he felt he had become too reliant on their input of late. He feared that he was losing this battle. It was increasingly distressing how easy and how often he deferred to others. 

Mabel was the first to speak. “Well, I mean…is it…bad? Like, is it a problem? I know it can’t be great, you know, having someone know your every thought, but, has he, like, _done_ anything about it? Has he….has he hurt you?”

The image of the night before flashed in his mind, bringing with it the feelings that consumed his evening. “Not…exactly”.

“Ok, well, you’ll tell us if he does, right? I mean, I know you don’t…that you think Stan is really gone, but I don’t. And Mabel doesn’t either. Stan doesn’t have it in him to hurt you, not really. Not now. But…you’ll still be careful. Bill is…hard to understand. But you have the most experience with him out of anyone. And…he likes you…in his, own, weird sort of way.” Stanford failed to suppress a chuckle; Mason was all too right about Bill, the kid just didn’t know how right. He should tell them. They were going to find out eventually. If they stayed out here, then the kids had the right to know why he would stay too. He could use the excuse that he was going to remain to guard Bill, but he didn’t have much time left. Maybe thirty years, maybe less. It would be pointless to remain here with Bill if in just a few short decades Stanford would die. No, the kids deserved the truth. They deserved to know why this was so hard for him. Why he hadn’t found a way to banish Bill yet. Why he was avoiding it. 

“Kids, I…” He stuttered, not sure if he was ready to tell them about his feelings. Would they even understand? What if they decided he wasn’t worth their time? What if they didn’t want to speak to him ever again? Even if he never got to hold them again, he couldn’t live with himself if he disappointed them like that. But they deserved know. They deserved to know how much he’d screwed this up. If they ever inherited his battle, the deserved to know why it happened. He glanced up to the screen and saw both children looking at him expectantly. _Time to say something, Stanford._  

“I’m sorry, that we can’t be there for Christmas. Be sure to give your Grandpa Shermie a big hug for me, would you?” He was a coward.

They nodded, earnest smiles across both adorable faces that only now were losing their baby fat. His grin was false but it placated the twins and they said their goodbyes as he ended the call. He wanted to hold them, make them feel safe. This forced isolation was really getting to him. Before, he and Stan would touch almost daily. A pat of the back or shoulder, arm slung around a neck, playful punches. It had been a few weeks since Stanford had felt an affectionate touch: the ‘incident’ from last night notwithstanding.

Maybe he should work on something. He never did get around to working on the notations on the book they’d picked up in Reykjavik. Not that he would be able to get anything to the kids in time for Christmas – or anytime in the near future really – but it might give him something to focus on. And hell, he had come up with an idea for portable mirror portals. Maybe he could test the theory on some mirrors they had around the ship and perfect the design and send the schematics to Mason. Then they could at least send stuff back and forth. But…was it too risky with Bill? He hadn’t shown any signs of being able to shapeshift, and from Stanford’s memory, Bill was unable to do so while possessing a human. It might be safe, provided the mirror was small enough to only pass through things like books and toys, rather than a whole person. And it would be nice to be able to speak with the children more often, instead of just when the weather cleared and they could connect to the satellite.

Stanford hummed happily to himself as he busied with clearing the table from the night before; packing away his notes and discarding crumpled paper. He watered Herman who danced under the shower and let out tiny squeaks that might have been taken for a song. It was so strange how fond of this little tree he was becoming. Herman had sprouted new leaves that draped across his frame, giving him the appearance of a mullet. Or, he supposes, it isn’t really a ‘he’ as trees and plants don’t have distinct social genders, but since they’d named it ‘Herman’, a ‘he’ is what he was. He brought his fingers up to brush away some dust that had accumulated on the leaves and felt the two tiny arms wrap around his thumb and nuzzle into it. A soft smile graced his lips as Stanford set aside his cleaning and sat down, marveling at this little creature that wanted to show him such affection.     

*~*

Stan woke late in the day, sometime after noon, not that it really mattered. He needed all the sleep he could get in preparation for tonight. It was a lot different manipulating dreams now that he was human. It took far more out of him than he expected, and he ended up needing time to rest. He didn’t even think a double shot of ‘Mabel Juice’ would keep him awake after he was done.

Stan had been practicing on the local sea-life to see how many minds he could link together. The first time he invaded the mind of a fish, it freaked out and though it was being attacked. He guessed that complex thought processes were confusing and alarming to anything that survived using only the based mental processes. He’d been careful to keep his mind blank after that so as not to spook anymore would be test subjects.

By the time he had expanded his mind to the limits, he could infiltrate and link the minds of about twenty fish; give or take the occasional squid that swam by. Stan had even experimented with distance, letting the fish swim nearly 300 miles away before he lost control. He hoped it was enough. The problem was that these were fish, not humans. He’d been able to infiltrate Ford’s dreams easily enough, and now that he’d had some practice, he didn’t even need to touch Ford with his magic anymore. But he’d only had direct experience with Ford. He didn’t know if he could actually reach out to the twins in Piedmont. He’d have to time it right too; the kids were three hours behind them, meaning he’d have to wait until almost the witching hour before he could try. He really wanted this to work out. They couldn’t be with the kids on Christmas, not that the kids would be really all that thrilled to have Stan around, but, he needed to do something for them. He knew Stanford was feeling guilty about not being able to send out the presents that had bought for the twins back in Iceland. The Puffin sat watchful and cute as ever on the self by Stan’s cot.

Stan sighed and rolled over, curling up in the blankets and burring his face in the pillow, the gold chain around his neck slipping with the weight of the medallion and resting on his bare shoulder. It smelled like parchment and faintly of chemicals. Sixer hadn’t even noticed that Stan had switched their pillows yesterday. Not that they were visually different, but if Stan could smell the difference with his reduced sense of smell from chain smoking cigars, then Sixer definitely would have noticed the difference had the nerd been aware enough to pay attention. Of course, Stan was the reason Sixer was distracted right now anyway. Or rather, _Bill_ was. The name dripped venom in his mind, scalding his sense of calm and bringing his emotions to a roaring boil. His eyes once again shifting from brown to yellow.

 _Bill_. His past. His burden, the thing that haunted him. The monster he used to be. The daemon he once was. The deaths he caused, enjoyed, the screams, the blood. And Ford loved that _thing_! Actually, fucking loved that he used to be a sadist, that he used to torture people because he got bored. Stanford had fallen in love with someone who used him, who abused that trust, who tormented his dreams and took over his body without consent. Making both Fiddleford and his brother think they were losing their minds. He had, on more occasions than he felt comfortable admitting, taken control of Stanford’s body and criticized MaGucket’s work, shouted at the man, and threatened him. Sixer would be left to try and clean up any misunderstandings after, sometimes not realizing that what had happened. Stanford believed that the shapeshifter was responsible for attacking Fiddleford in the bunker. That his precious ‘Shifty’ had taken on his form and attacked his research assistant. But Shifty was innocent. Bill had possessed Ford’s body and chased Fidds into the cupboard with a broken bottle. Oh, how he had loved manipulating Ford’s memories of the shapeshifter, making the tiny thing more terrifying than it was until Fordsy had gotten so scared and locked the poor thing in a cryotube. And Pinetree wondered why the thing hated Ford so much. HA! It was pathetically simple to seed feelings of distrust. He’d told IQ that Little Fiddle was not committed to the project, and Sixer had believed him without even consulting his assistant. He’d had his pet eating out of the palm of his non-existent hand. 

Fiddleford wasn't the only one, he was just the most convenient. He had scared away people that had come snooping around the shack in the middle of the night. He built Sixer a fairly good “Mad-scientists in the woods” persona. The ‘Society of the Blind Eye’ didn’t remember, but they had lost one of their flock that had tried to seek revenge on Sixer for their founder. The stupid kid had begged to be let go, that he would use the memory gun and forget all about the weird things, the town, everything. He hadn’t let the kid go. Instead, he had used Sixer’s body to deal with him, to clean up, and dispose of what little was left in the lake.

Stan felt a clench in his gut. The damn kid didn’t really deserve what had happened, but he brought in a hand gun, caught Sixer coming out of the shower, ready to shoot his brother through the eyes. Sixer had been so shell-shocked it was easy to slip in his mind and take control. No. the kid hadn’t deserved the hours of fear and pain that followed, but at the same time he knows he wouldn’t be sitting here regretting it if he hadn’t done what he did.

And then there were the things he did to Sixer himself. Thing he did out of anger, delight at how his little pet responded. When his eye started bleeding, Sixer had been so scared, so terrified to sleep for fear that he would lose control over his body. Sixer had been terrified that someone would break in and try to steal the plans for the portal. He gave Sixer nightmares, horrid nightmares that were so real it made Sixer question what was real. He made Sixer believe that his skin was melting off, that the gnomes had kidnapped him and were marrying him off to the Lepricorn, that he had, in a fit of madness, gone into town and killed some random woman and watched her struggle to breathe as he choked the life from her. He’d even made Sixer think he had gone into the woods and slaughtered every Plaidypus he found, wringing the hides free of blood and hanging them up to dry in the attic. That one had made IQ cry.

In the days before…erm…he had arrived in Gravity Falls from New Mexico, he had corrupted every memory he could find of IQ’s childhood. Changed how IQ perceived his brother, emphasized how much of a screw-up his twin was, how little he had accomplished. He had filled IQ’s memories with a two-person sailing ship going up in flames, with a person inside screaming for help. It alternated who was inside, and who had lit the flames, but it was always the two of them, suffocating one another. It was kind of ironic that the vison that finally broke Sixer, was seeing his twin taking his journal with yellow eyes and reactivating the portal.

Sixer had begged him to stop after that. And for reasons he still didn’t understand, he had. Waiting for the arrival of another pawn. When the brothers (and wasn’t it trippy to be thinking of himself as an ‘other’) fought, he had sat back and watched the sparks fly. It was hilarious when, without his meddling, the portal opened and both brothers screamed for one another. Doubly hysterical when he saw the look on ol’Sixer’s face when the human realized that he was in the Nightmare Realm. The dual agony and hilarity from that moment warred in his chest, reminding him that even the worst moment of his human life was one of the best overall. How much grief he’d felt that day paled in comparison to the glee he’d felt on the other side of the portal. The memory of his own screams drowned out by the high-pitched cackle in the Nightmare Realm. His eyes burned and pulsed and he squeezed them tighter as the urge to laugh bubbled up in his throat, choking him and leaving behind a trail of acid.

He hurled Ford’s pillow to the other side of the room, listening to the dull ‘thwump’ as it hit the hull and bounced to the cot below. It wasn't enough. He clutched with unclipped fingernails at his scalp, digging bleeding grooved into the skin. He wanted to throw smoothing heavier, something that could really do some damage. He wanted to hear something with more heft hit the hull wall. Something with a wetter sound. His fingers itched to dig into something besides his own flesh. To wrap around a neck, to knock some heads together. To pop someone’s head like a melon and watch the splatter coat the ground. It’s what Sixer wanted, right? For him to be a monster again. For him to rearrange someone’s face. Sixer used to like that. He used to do that for Sixer when they were younger too. Crampelter had shoved Sixer in his locker with ‘Freak’ written in red lipstick on his forehead. When he found out, he’d seen red. He’d come to feeling a cop pull him off the kid and put him in handcuffs, Crampelter’s face a bloody mess. He’d gotten suspended for that one, but Sixer had told him Crampelter was on crutches and had a swollen face for a week after. But he could do better than that. A lot better. He could turn people inside out now. Force them to change into various forms, their bodies contorting as bones broke and reformed into whatever he wanted. Sure, he’d screw-up a few times until he got the hang of it again, but he could have fun while doing it. And Sixer would too. Sixer loved that he was a monster. Didn’t he? 

He could feel himself stating to hyperventilate, his skin crackling with the potential release of magic. Swiping his hand across the sheets, his fingers tangled in the cable knit sweater Mabel had made him at the end of the summer. He brought it up to his nose and mouth, breathing deep the familiar sent of sickly sweet sugar and glue that the girl always seemed to smell like. He felt the fabric grow moist against his skin and realized he was crying, the brine marring the calming sent of his great niece. He needed to see them. Even if it was only in their dreams. He needed this, maybe more than Sixer or the kids. He was losing himself. Every time he remembered something about _before_ , it drove out all other feelings and memories. Like his memories as Bill were louder or stronger than anything else. It was becoming a struggle to keep his humanity. What would happen if he woke up one day and couldn’t remember anything from being human. couldn’t recall loving his family, couldn’t remember what Mabel’s hugs felt like, or the sound of Mason and Ford playing that stupid nerd game, their voices a low drone in the background as he sat in the kitchen reading the paper.

He felt his throat catch. He couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded in his ears, thudding rapidly against his rib cage. Sixer was right. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe around people anymore. This evening was going to be the last time he ever got to interact with the kids. Should he try and include Soos too? God. The kid didn’t even know what was going on, did he? Was too busy running the Mystery Shack with his girlfriend, living out his dream since he was Mason and Mabel’s age. He’d never get to say goodbye. Never get to tell Soos how proud he was. He’d even gone so far as to…no. It wasn't going to happen now. Besides, the file had been lost after the shack was destroyed by…him…himself.

Maybe it was better this way. He didn’t have to hide who he was. He could just be what he really was without causing anyone any harm. Maybe Sixer, but Sixer liked him like this. Uncontrolled, unhinged. He could feel his magic scratching at the floorboards trying to get out. He’d buried it underneath all the lovey-dovey feelings, waste of time feelings because they were all just stupid chemical impulses to keep them from killing their own offspring to keep the species going. Just chemicals, that’s all they were. He didn’t really love these people. They were just, insignificant, tiny specs in the infinite horizon. Meaningless. He could kill them. Erase them from this world so he wouldn’t be tempted to go back. Except Sixer. Well, maybe… 

NO!

He was Stan. He wasn’t anything else. No one else! His name was Stanley Pines. He grew up in New Jersey in Glass Shard Beach with his twin and parents over an old pawn shop. He dropped out of high-school and became a traveling salesman, a criminal and a prostitute when the time called for it. He’d spent two years with Rick and Beth in Columbia before he got caught and then escaped to New Mexico before going to meet his brother in Gravity Falls. He was Stan Pines, former Mr. Mystery and founder of the Mystery Shack. He loved his brothers, loved his niece and nephew, loved his grandkids, love his adopted son. He was Stan Pines. He was human. He was human.

His breathing evened out and he felt his heart rate calm. He blinked his eyes free of tears and felt his eyes shift. They were his eyes. Human. His. He still felt like throwing up, but he wasn't crackling with untamed magic anymore. He needed to calm down. Think of something happy. Maybe he could flip through that tablet and see what books Mabel had downloaded onto it before they left. She had spent a good hour or two going through and downloading books that she insisted Ford read to catch up on all the culture he had missed while dimension hopping. Maye he’d get some ideas from it about what to make for the kids’ adventure tonight. He had some ideas already, but it was their night after all. They got to choose.

He wasn't ready to face Sixer just yet. Not yet. He needed some more time. He clutched the sweater to him like a security blanket and dug out the copy of the scrap book Mabel had given him, annotated with drawings from all four of the most important people in his life. It was going to be ok. He was going to be ok. They were safe. He was safe. Stanford was safe. They would get through this. Stanford would figure out something to help keep his magic at bay and he could learn to control his impulses. He took a deep breath through his nose and let the memories of the Mystery Shack wash over him, the familiar smells and sounds of the old wood house. The dust and pine sap and distinctly organic smell of the taxidermy in the museum. The sound of the kids playing upstairs. The feel of the old armchair in the den as he sat for hours reading that damned journal over and over again. The sound of the goat bleating in the mornings like it was a rooster; that goat was an odd one, though now that he knew it used to be human, it kind of made sense. He made a note to himself to treat the thing better. And to be warry of that hand witch, he didn’t fancy having to live his life as a goldfish.

*~*

When Stan did climb up the the main cabin, Stanford had been adding notations and excerpts from his journal to the book he bought for Mason. Herman was chirping along to some soft instrumental music Ford had playing in the background. The light from the various computer screens illuminating the room with a mix of green and blue, making it seem like they were walking through an aquarium. Ford had paused in his writing, the scritch of his pen stopping abruptly as Stan stepped into the room. Stan watched Ford’s back went ridged, shoulders tensing and body close in on itself. He sighed, taking the seat by the sonar array on the other side of the room and turned on the tablet, flicking through the variety of books on the screen this a swipe of the finger.

Killing time. That’s really all he was doing. Waiting until the day was over so he could see the kids. Well, not really, but as close as he could to seeing them anyway. He might never get to see them again and….no. Stop it. He needed to keep himself calm. He needed to keep himself sane. No good would come of getting himself worked up.

He’d accidently tapped on ‘Alice in Wonderland’ instead of swiping, deciding a hundred-year-old story about a girl wandering through a magical fairy land might do him some good. Was it that old? Oh, it didn’t matter, whatever kept his mind off things. They sat in silence for a time. Stan read about Alice and her journey down the rabbit hole, her discovery of the Cheshire cat and the singing flowers. All things that would make a great place for kids to explore. Maybe it was a good pick after all; the book was giving him some ideas.

But as much as he read, he found himself glancing in Stanford’s direction more often than he had any right to. And every time he even so much as made a noise, he could see Stanford tense, prepared for an attack. Maybe he should try and break the tension. Maybe letting Sixer drone on about what he was working on would make him less like an over taut bow string.

“Working on the book fer Dipper?”

“Yes”. So, they were back to one-word communication again. He’d really bugged that one up, hadn’t he? He’d thought he’d read Sixer’s interest as clear on his face as it was in his mind, but Stan hadn’t realized how much Ford was repulsed by his own desires. He supposes he can’t be too upset, he did try to take over the world, threaten the family and electrocute Ford a few times. That would put anyone off, past relationship or not. Heh. Stan’s posture slumped at the memory. He had done a lot of things he regretted now. And he didn’t blame Ford in the slightest for still holding a grudge. It didn’t make it hurt any less.

“So…any, um, ideas on how ta deliver them. I know I don’t have the best control right now, but…if’n you wanted ta try…I could…”

“No. The last experiment with teleportation resulted in you leaving half your limbs behind.”

Stan grimaced. That had been one of the most painful experiences of his life. Infected brands, and near severed arteries had nothing on losing an arm and a leg and half his pelvis in one go. It had taken him about three hours and two doses of dangerous levels of numbing agent to concentrate enough to heal himself. The whole time Stanford just hunched over him, face white and looking ready to throw-up. Stan had tossed the old decaying limbs overboard once the new ones were fully functional. Still hairy and still covered in scars; and he’s still not completely sure why. The memory of the pain was safely sequestered under the floorboards of the Shack in his mind and it would stay there. Ford had begged Stan to smear the details of the event from his mind. Had clung to him, hands running over the new limbs again and again to make sure they were real, and had begged Stan to blur the memory until there was nothing left but emotionless fact.

This was getting stupid. He needed to cut the tension somehow. They couldn’t keep dancing around one another like this. One of them was going to snap, and he really didn’t wanna find out which one of them was going to break first. They were both far too stubborn, far to fiery in their natures to not turn this into something that would consume them both.     

“Right. Well...” He sighed, giving up on reading and just setting the damn thing aside. He rubbed at his face and removed his glasses. The room was blurry when he looked up, adding even more to the aquarium ambiance. He didn’t need to see clearly to see how ridged Stanford had become. There was nothing for it then. They couldn’t even sit in the same room and pretend it didn’t happen.   

Ok, so he didn’t get to be with Sixer the way he dreamed. He could deal with that; hell, he’d been dealing with it for fifty some odd years. But he had gotten a taste of affection form his brother over the last few months. Just a taste of having a family again, someone who had his back, who complemented him perfectly. They were a team. Two parts of a dynamic duo, two sides of the same coin. Even if Ford never hugged him again, he still wanted his brother back. Maybe that was asking too much. He slumped further in the chair and studied the patterns in the floor boards.

“Should I leave?” His whispers almost lost in the slow piano notes creaking out of the old cassette player. He hadn’t meant to ask. Not really. It was just a passing thought. One that he'd been scared to know the answer to.

“It wouldn’t make a difference. No matter where we sit, we’re no more than thirty feet from one another.” Stanford made a point to keep writing, making Stan aware that he was a interrupting. Stan bulldozed his way over the subtle indication to shut up. 

“I…I meant, leave. As in go elsewhere. Not on the ship. I know what happened last time, but I was still able ta heal after that botched teleport. Then you…” He gulped. An image of Ford with the kids, happy, and safe flickered in his mind. “You could go home.” After all this time, Stanford deserved that much. If nothing else.

He’d closed off his mind to Ford yesterday after he’d screwed everything into next week, so there was no telling when Sixer was thinking. But from the look his brother was giving him, he doubted it was anything good. Sixer was staring at him like he was the world’s most difficult puzzle and he had given up on how to solve it. Confusion, resentment, and despair. Maybe once upon a lifetime ago he might have enjoyed that look. Now it just turned his stomach cold.

“Go eat something. It’s after three.” Stanford didn't wait for Stan to leave before he turned back to his work.

Stan paused for just a moment, waiting for the the other shoe to drop. When nothing happened but the scritch of a pen, he pushed himself up by bracing himself against the table and made his way back down to the galley. Tablet left forgotten.

*~*~*~*

-1:30 a.m. Christmas Eve-

Stanford knew exactly what was happening as soon as he became aware and of his surroundings. Blades of blue grass as tall as trees and a strangely yellow sky. It was vivid. Absurdly vivid for a normal dream. He was curled inside a yellow and pink tulip, the stamen and pollen stalks missing, instead the petals nearest the base were silky soft and loosely wrapped around his body. He rolled out of the petals and stood, pushing the taller and more ridged petals out of the way to get a better look at the world around him. The grass was indeed blue, and the dew was composed of purple and red liquid. He really wasn't sure where he was supposed to be. He'd come across worlds like this in his travels; the difficulty was in determining which one it was. It didn't take him long.

A loud 'whoop’ echoed from somewhere in the brush to his left. Three guesses as to who it might be. His brother came hurtling out the of the brush, hooting and hollering like he'd just won a championship for conning people out of their money. His red beanie easily identifiable in the blue stalks. His trench coat trailing behind him as he vaulted onto a stalk and rode it to the ground like some kind of iconic adventuring hero. It suited him. Stan had always been more into comics and rogue heroes than he was.

Stan had come to a halt just beneath the tulip, beaming up at Stanford with his seventy-watt smile. He waved and shouted something that seemed very incomprehensible; like it was from really far away or traveling through water. Stanford couldn’t help but smile to himself; his brother’s enthusiasm could be infectious. It was how Stan had conned Stanford into getting into so much trouble when they were kids. All Stan had to do was get excited over something, smile with the brightness to outshine the sun and Stanford would cave. How could he not? Just like now. Stan had entered his dreams without asking, and Stanford was just going along with it. He was happy. Stupidly happy. Why was he so happy? Hadn’t he been on edge when he went to sleep? But Stanford couldn’t bring himself to worry too much over the inconsistency in his mood as Stan made a point of looking at a materialized pocket watch and tapping at the glass.

“Anytime this century, Poindexter?” Stanford let out an amused huff and tried to edge his way down out the of the cup of petals and down the stem. He had gotten all of one foot braced on the bud when he felt his boot slide along the smooth surface. He was slipping. His frantic attempts to grab hold of the petals only tore the delicate thing to shreds. He felt no defined purchase beneath his feet as his fingers lost their grip on the flower and he fell. He felt his heart jump in his chest, dream or no, adrenaline pulsed through his body until he felt something wrap around his thighs and lower back.

Stan had caught him, and they were quickly sinking into the ground – that now seemed to be made of bounce house material – to compensate for the rapid decrease in velocity. They bobbled in place as the ground beneath Stan’s feet absorbed the impact. He felt a rumble of a chuckle against his chest as he gripped tightly to the lapels of Stan’s coat, doing his best not to squirm as the unsteadiness of the ground. He’d been to a dimension like this and had hated every moment he’d been there. No surface was solid and every tiny movement had sent vibrations and undulations through everything. Their bobbling slowed and the ground solidified once again. Stan hadn’t let him go yet.

“Hey there darlin’, if I knew you were gonna fall fer me, I’d have thought ta bring a bottle of wine.” Stanford felt the arms around him tighten. He squirmed again. He could feel himself blush; the heat pooling in his cheeks and rapidly creeping over his entire face. As happy as he was, he couldn’t let this slide. He pushed against Stan’s chest, and opened his mouth to reprimand his brother for doing something so careless as to invade his dreams. _Especially without asking first! He couldn’t just do that!_  

But the joy of the moment was overshadowed by the pair of yellow eyes staring at him. All the happiness was sucked out of him as he realized that none of it was real. That Bill had been manipulating his emotions. “Yeah, it’s kinda hard to stop that. It takes me a while to get it under control. I figured it might bother them, so I came to get you first.” Stanford had no idea what Bill was talking about, and had no patience for it. He pushed wildly against the being inhabiting his brother’s body, squirming even harder to get away from him.

Bill sighed, “Ah, well, at least I got to hold you for a bit.” He let go of Stanford’s legs and steadied the other man while he regained his balance before letting go. The lingering hand at Stanford’s waist was slapped away as Stanford made a point to distance himself from Bill. He scoffed at the hurt look on the daemon’s face; like referring to him by his name actually hurt him. What, did he really expect Stanford to keep calling him ‘Stan’, like he didn’t know?

Bill rubbed at the back of his neck, looking put out. He opened his mouth to say something when the sound of a squeal and irritated chittering echoed from the gassline. Bill, startled, flicked his fingers towards Stanford – he felt his jacket disappear, replaced by a sweater and a fishing hat drop onto his head – before pulling a set of novelty palm tree glasses out of the air and sliding them into place before the creatures entered the clearing.       

Stanford was only mildly surprised when he saw his grandniece come tumbling out of the brush chasing after a plaidypus.

“Come back here, you! You’re from Dipper’s book. I wanna sniff you!” The poor creature was waddling away as fast as it’s little webbed feet could carry it, it’s flat tail scattering dried petals like fallen leaves in its wake. Stanford felt sorry for the thing, even if it wasn’t real and only made from the void in the mindscape.

She screeched to a halt when she noticed the two brothers standing beneath the tulip. The plaidypus chittering angrily as it dove into the brush on the other side of the clearing and disappeared. They stood in silence for a short while, Bill standing expectantly and Stanford trying to read Mabel’s expression.

She perked up with a cheery smile and ran towards her uncle, jumping into his arms and flipping them end over end as the ground sagged again to absorb the impact. 

“Grunkle Ford! Oh my gosh! You look so real. Why have I never had a dream so real before? How come Waddles isn’t here, usually he’s always near in my dreams. Oooh, are you gonna show me how to do wizard stuff? Are we gonna got tame a centaur?”

Stanford blinked up at the thirteen-year-old bundle of sugar and energy sitting on his chest and gleefully prattling on about the adventures she wanted to go on. His mindscape escapades were always strange; while he was there, everything felt real, but upon waking, the memory felt like phantom waves. Like when you had been swimming all day and you still felt the waves and the water lapping at your body. So, he could feel her sitting on his chest, and his brain fooled him into thinking she was really there. But she wasn’t. it was all just a trick, an illusion by Bill. Unless…

Unless she was there. Unless Stan had actually connected their minds. Could he do that? Theoretically it was possible, but to think that Stan could accomplish such control over such a short period of time. Did that mean…?

“Mable?”

“Yeah?” She had her hands fisted in his new sweater, tracing the word stitched into the fabric idly. ‘Nerdy’…he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what his hat said if the photos from the kids’ fishing trip is any indication. He took a breath.  

“Are…you real?” Stanford knows it’s a stupid question, as nothing here was real and just a figment of the mind, but the question, he hoped, conveyed the appropriate meaning.

“What do you mean ‘am I real’? What kind of question is that?” She looked at him shrewdly, hand on her chin and staring into his eyes. She hummed as she thought. Eyes squinting and brow wrinkling.  

“What, no love for your favorite Grunkle?” Of course, Bill had to but in and make his presence known. If she was really there, Mabel wasn’t safe. Stanford could feel the girl stiffen, she looked towards Bill, wary and hesitant to answer him. Bill had his arms open, like he was preparing for the same treatment Mabel had given Stanford, glasses obscuring his eyes. Stanford wrapped an arm around her back and tried his best to sooth her worries. He had to try and get them out of here. He didn’t think Bill could actually hurt them, but he wanted to spare the children from the nightmares he might give them. 

“Hey, I’m pretty sure Mas- I mean…Dipper should be nearby. Why don’t you go scouting for him while…Stan…and I discuss some things? Ok?” He didn’t want to alarm her, and distracting her by having her look for her twin might just give him enough time to figure out what was happening. It seemed to work when she perked up and hugged him around the neck.

“Ok, but where should I start looking?” She made a point of looking around the clearing, not that she would see much beyond the grassline and the flower they were under.   

“My guess is that he is somewhere near where you first woke up here.” Though, ‘somewhere near’ may mean a few feet to a few miles. The mindscape was always very arbitrary with distance. “Ok, by the way, where is here? I’ve never seen this place before, so I guess it’s from one of you guys.” That made Stanford pause. She…did she realize that this was no ordinary dream?

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” She casts a side eye towards Bill, “We’re in the mind, right? Like when we…um…stopped Gideon from getting the deed to the shack. It’s like that…right? We’re in your mind, or…something.” Stanford had not missed the fact that she specifically avoided mentioning either Stan or Bill. He’d heard all about the kids and Soos’s adventure into Stanley’s mind. Apparently, it had been an eye opener for all three of them. As much as it might have pained him to do so, he wished he had been there and gotten to see some of what Stan’s life had been like during their time apart. He doubts he will like knowing, but he wants to. If only to understand a bit more of the man Stanley had become when he walked back into his life that fateful winter.

“Right. I’m not sure where exactly we are, I think…” But Stanford was interrupted by a gruff and gravel voice.

“I can answer that.”

He chided himself on forgetting that Bill was still there with them. He needed to keep a clear and focused mind around the daemon if he was going to keep ahead of his plans. He had to protect the kids at all costs. Bill couldn’t be trusted, he cou-                                                                                                              

“I was reading ‘Alice in Wonderland’ earlier today. Figured it would e a nice little place, the flower garden, being small. I kept out the weirdo caterpillar, guy kina gave me the creeps. And that hookah pipe stank.” Stanford blinked in response. Allice in Wonderland, if he remembered correctly, did have a similar atmosphere to it. At least from what he remembered reading back in grade school. But why on Earth was Bill reading it? And what prompted this mind link anyway? What was he planning?

“Hey, pumpkin, why don’t you run along and find Dipper. We’ll be along soon.” Bill was, if nothing else, excellent at mimicking Stan. Enough so that even Mabel, who had been tense just moments ago, relaxed enough to address the man directly.

“Ok. I’ll go see what I can from the air. I always wanted to ride a bubble. Or maybe a dandelion puff, or an eagel! I guess I’ll decide when I get there.” She lifted herself off of Stanford’s chest and helped him up by tugging at his sweater sleeves until he was able to gain purchase on the thankfully solid ground. She assessed both brothers carefully before grinning widely. “And no fighting. Please.” She emphasized her point by making a rainbow appear above her head with the word ‘please’ in bold print. Stanford couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Alright, alright, geeze, cut a guy some slack.” “I’ll try to keep my temper in control.” They both spoke at once, words drowning the other out and voices intermixed. They both gave the other a sidelong glance.

But Mabel seemed pacified and shouted in glee as she jumped into the air, bouncing on the now unstable ground and vaulting into the brush. Stanford pinwheeled his arms and rocked back and forth, riding the waves as the ground regained stability. He was never going to be fully comfortable with that. 

“Ah, still gives me a burning sensation. And I still can’t figure out why.” Bill was rubbing at his chest like Stan used to when he felt the oncoming heartburn after eating greasy food. Stanford may have promised Mabel that he wouldn’t fight, but he had had enough of Bill’s antics.  

“What are you doing?” He turned to Bill with every intent to restrain the daemon if he had to. He’d learned a few things since he’d been traveling the multiverse. He could manipulate the mindscape to combat Bill if he needed to. He could even eject Bill given enough time and concentration, but only from his own mind. He had no idea if he could do the same with the children. Or if he could shield them from Bill. 

“Merry Christmas to you too. I even tried ta make ya actually feel happy rather than be all skeptical like you usually are. ‘Course you’d ruin it by being a giant stick in the mud.” Bill crossed his arms and leaned against the stem of the tulip, yanking the glasses off and tucking them in his inner pocket.

“Listen Cipher, I don’t know what you’re planning, but if you think for one second th-“.

“I’m not.”

“What?” He hadn’t even finished making his threat yet. God, would Cipher just learn to let people talk?

“I’m not gonna hurt the kids. Not even accidently. I’ve been practicing with fish for a few weeks, got up to almost thirty at once. It’s just…since we couldn’t be there for Christmas. I wanted to see them just as much as you did.

Stanford felt a mix of emotions. Excited that he got to interact with the kids in person – well, as in person as he could – and more than a little touched, but also furious that Bill would do something like this. Something that would break down his defenses like this, something that, if Bill really meant no harm, would keep Stanford on edge the whole time and would rile the kids. And if he did try to keep calm, it would build and build until he exploded. Either way, if the kids chose Bill, then they would lose their trust in him, and would result in Bill taking control. He had to stop this, somehow he needed to gain control. He was brought out of his mind when Bill gave an exasperated sigh. 

“Can you, just this once, trust me?” He held out his hand, waiting for Stanford to take it. Stanford instinctively reared back, holding his hand to his chest, eyeing the offered palm like it would erupt in flames. But it didn’t. He eyed it and the man it belonged to warily.

Bill sighed and dropped the hand. “Alright, alright. Let’s just go find the kids. Ok?”

Stanford decided to play along for the time being. There was very little he could do besides eject Bill from his mind; he could do nothing for the kids just yet. And he did miss them, so damn much, Even if it was just a dream, he needed this.

*~*~*

But all dreams come to an end, and all Nightmares have a beginning.

He had spent the entire night exploring various worlds with the children. They’d exhausted the ‘fun’ rides at the park, and the kids had convinced him to change his form. The problem with doing that was in order to change things in the mindscape, one had to get in the right mindset. Hence changing into a child meant also thinking like a child – or, at least, like Stanford was when he was a child. He’d even made the suggestion to F-98/β. He’d let himself get caught up in the thrill of sharing something wonderous with the people he loved most. And the ensuing teasing from his encounter with Richard was almost worth it. Their journey to Elcoris 4 and their explorations to the lava lake was probably the most fun he’d had in several years. He wasn’t going to admit to any of them soon how his heart had stopped the instant the sea dragon had turned towards them. He couldn’t help the bloom of affection he felt glancing over at Bill once they had been teleported back to the central square.

He’d really gone out of his way to make this night special for the kids. He’d warned them every time his eyes changed color. He discussed scientific concepts with Mason and indulged Mabel in her need for adventure. He was good with them. Great even. Like he had been over the summer. They adored him, clamoring for his attention, and hanging off his every word. Stanford supposes that the tiny twinge of jealousy he felt at the twins’ excitement may have been karma for all the attention he received as “The Author”, but the swell of affection taking root in his chest while looking at them overpowered any thoughts of jealousy. Even more so when Bill would glance back at him and give him that soft little smile he used to when they were kids. Stan used to give him that smile when they were working on the Stan O’War, when they were playing on the beach and talking about all the adventures they would go on when they got older, all the pranks that they pulled on the other kids in the neighborhood. That soft smile was always present when Stan would comfort him after he’d gotten beat up, always there when he’d woken up after a nightmare and crawled into the bottom bunk late at night. It was the same smile Stan had given him when he taught Stanford to dance, and the same one he’d worn after Cathy had thrown punch in his face and Stan had done the same to himself before dragging Sanford onto the dancefloor. Some school photographer had snapped a picture and the two had made it into the yearbook as ‘class clowns’. It was the same smile Stan had given him in the few scant moments of friendliness they had in the Mystery Shack, and the same one he had given Stanford when they watched the bus drive away carrying the two children that changed their lives. Two children he loved more than he though he ever could, given that he’d really only known them for six months or so.   

They were his family, and he loved them so much. How could he have ever thought that this was bad? That Stan being around the kids was dangerous? This was heaven. Standing here, on Glass Shard Beach, playing with the kids on the old swing set that held such significance in both their minds. Remembering when Stan had thrown out all the clothes he perceived as ‘too girly’ due to one passing comment from their father. But Filbrick was dead. Nothing could hurt them now. Maybe when they made shore, he would buy Stan a belated Christmas present; something feminine, maybe an earring. He thinks Stan would look good with an earring, a gold hoop perhaps. He always imagined Bill would be partial to gold. Wait…

Bill? That’s right. It wasn't…It wasn’t Stan. It was Bill. It had always been. Stanford had been fooled by the eyes. Bill had, somehow, either by manipulating what they saw or by his own force of will, changed his eyes to Stan’s deep brown. Stan’s eyes, that face. It was all too much. He’d let himself go. He’d let himself believe the fantasy. Stanford had tried, had really tried to keep a clear head, but Bill had manipulated him. He’d let down his guard in an attempt to placate the children, and he’d been taken in by Bill’s acting. Bill had replicated his brother so well, so perfectly that he let himself be a child again, let himself be innocent and naive. He let himself be taken in by nostalgia. Let himself lose focus. The kids were too close to him, they were being fooled. He had to protect them. This monster had taken his sanity, half his life and his brother from him, now it was trying to take his family too.

“Bill, that’s enough!” Stanford’s words were like a blade slicing through the air.

Bill just looked at a spot above Mabel’s shoulder and sighed; his acting skills were in top form, even Stanford may have been fooled if he hadn’t been so furious. Bill had tricked him again! Again! How could he have been so weak. God damn! The kids came first, they always would. Their safety his top priority. He could deal with his feelings later, but right no Bill needed to be contained. Bill’s hand fell limp from Mabel’s shoulder, fingers catching on the sleeve of her sweater. Stanford’s jaw was set tight, teeth grinding together as he waited, wondering if he needed to step in.  

“Yeah. Ok.” Bill’s eyes were downcast as he stood and took a step away from them. Stanford bit back an automatic apology, it wasn't Stan, it was Bill. Bill didn’t really care about the kids. Bill aged himself, looking more like the old man Stan used to be, and Stanford did the same. They were no longer teens, no longer children, even in their own minds. Stanford was done being the fool.

“Hey, it should be morning now. Should probably let you kids back, huh?” The kids faded, like they were being washed out with the intensity of the light from the sunset. The kids were being sent home, sent back to their own minds, safe and far, far away from Bill. But the victory was short lived as Stanford watched in abject horror as Bill showed his true form. Stan’s body contorting, constricting, and tearing apart to reform into the beast he’d thought he’d never see again. He heard a voice he hoped to never have to listen to again. Towering before him was the unmistakable form of Bill Cipher, the daemon that tricked him, that fed him praises and told him everything he wanted to hear. The being that faked affection for him, that showed him pleasure, that had kept him company in the long lonely hours he spent alone in Gravity Falls. Before him was the monster that took his brother from him, and that, against all odds, against all reason and all logic, he still loved. Had this night not proven that? It filled him with both fear and that damnable butterfly in the stomach feeling to look into that face again. Stanford knew he would break. He just didn’t think it would be so soon.

 


	19. Merry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan loses control, and Ford deals with the consiquences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *~*~*~*TW*~*This gets really bad. Major Dub-con/Bordering non-con*~*~*~TW*~*~*~*  
> This note will be in the text when things get bad. Forewarning to those who shoose to skip this part; you don't miss much. This was hard for me to write for multiple reasons, primary being it made me uncomfortable. As such, this might seem way out of character for anyone who is the victim of sexual assult. I couldn;t write this accurately and still be able to finish the story. Hence why it's dub-con instead. It's not accurate at all to what victims go through, so please take care of yourselves. 
> 
> Thanks.

This was it. The last piece of proverbial weight that broke him. He could handle having Sixer twitchy and paranoid around him, hell, he knew he deserved it, but this? The kids? They didn’t deserve to have to deal with this. They were his family, he loved them. They may as well have been his kids. He was never going to see them again. They would grow up without him. He’d never get to see Mason graduate and go to college. He’d never get to see Mabel’s first art showing; she was going to make waves. He’d never get to see their families, never get to tell them how proud of them he was. He would never see them again. Hell, he hadn’t spoken with them in months; Stan _ford_ hadn’t allowed it. Stan **ford** had told him he was scaring them, that they were afraid of him. Stanford had told them he was a monster and sent them lab updates like he was a caged and raving animal! STANFORD had kept him from what was _his_!

His little puppet really was getting too big for his britches, wasn't he? Trying to throw around power he didn’t have. Trying all night to fight off his influence and break the mind link between them. Trying to prevent him from having what was his. The kids were his! They were part of the Zodiac. He’d wanted to kill them, and he was merciful. The fate of Pinetree and Shooting Star were in his hands, and if he chose to lock them in a fantasy world, it was his choice. IQ should be happy they were alive and well cared for. But instead, Sixer was intent on keeping the big bad monster in a cage.

Fine, If Sixer thought he was a monster, if he wanted Bill back so god damned badly, then he was going to have to deal with the fallout.

The kids were being thrown back into their own minds, but they weren't there just yet. He had no patience. He felt his body shifting, contorting. His power wasn’t strained anymore. He could manipulate more, do more. If Sixer wanted a nightmare, who was he to deny his pet freak!

They were still on the beach, but all sound stopped. The waves crashed in complete silence, the wind rocked the swings back and forth but no breeze could be felt.   

It was the dreamscape, sure, but turning was painful. His body went ridged, bone creaking as he felt the magic flow through him. Would he change in the real world too? Did it matter? Sixer wanted him like this, treated him like Bill, so what did it matter if he changed. Maybe IQ would finally be happy with him.

He stood his his head resting against his chest, shoulders pulled back and arms stretched out, bent at the elbow like he’d been poorly crucified. His fingers twitched. A loud crack slashed its way through the still air, reverberating off of every surface. His neck snapped up to look at his pet. Head at an unnatural angle; his neck was broken. But it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to have one very soon.   

“If you want to see it so damn bad, IQ, you should have asked.” He could hear himself. His old voice. His real voice. The one he’d had for a millennia. The one that whispered sweet nightmares to countless plebeians over the centuries and drove them insane. The voice that carried through the ages and sparked a thousand boogieman stories to keep children in line. The vice that charmed he mindless humans and then turned around and tormented them until they did something entertaining.

He blinked, eyelids closing from the sides. He could feel them turn, the sclera pale to their proper hue, and his pupils grow to better absorb the light. It was still fuzzy, but he could still make out when IQ took a step back. Heh, it was cute how scared Sixer was. His eyes glazed over, sliding together and jointing into one with a sickening squelch. He could see. For the first time in almost sixty years, he could see properly again. Who needed depth perception?

He grinned, mouth spreading unnaturally wide, wider than what his mouth could, so it split at the corners, separating flesh and muscle up his jaw and to the base of his ears. His tongue grew to better fit his new mouth, forked at the tip and prehensile. The set of yellowed dentures dropped to the sand with no proper support and they danced like a wind-up toy bent on biting off IQ’s toes. They were replaced with fangs that shot out of his new jaw like nails.    

 Another sharp crack and his arm broke from the force of the magic flowing through him. The bone sharp and gleaming in the setting sun as it broke through the skin and tissue. This was it. This was going to be the best part. Too bad he couldn’t watch IQ’s reaction. Wait, yes he could. Several black mucus blobs grew from the air, each splitting to show one perfect yellow eye. They focused on Stanford, but the man was too lost in his own fear to notice.

He laughed, high and echoing.  The sky turned red, opening up like it had all those months ago, raining He watched as Sixer’s body shuddered from it. He ran his forked tongue along his lips, curling it around one of his fangs. Yes, he was going to enjoy this. A blade of light sliced his shirt down the middle from sternum to pelvis. The blood spray coating the fabric multiple shades of red as his rib cage broke apart and opened wide. His organs pulsed, exposed to the air for only a moment before they burst into blue flames.

His head snapped back in an instant, the back of his head meeting his spine with a crunch. His shoulders fracturing, dislocating, and turning in to narrow his upper half. His pelvis cracked and split to widen his base. He was turning himself inside out, the hollow chest cavity where his organs used to be a golden yellow as the flames died. His eye ripped through the flesh and bone of his skull and chest to open back where it should be. The remainder of his worthless human body absorbed into the maw at his back before closing. Arms and legs he hadn’t felt in decades shot out from his sides and he felt the comforting weight of the top hat balance on his point.

Here he was. Sixty years and now he’s back! Why did he ever think being human was a good idea? He was just in the mindscape and he felt great! Could this get any better?

Oh, yes it could. Sixer was looking at him like he was the second coming. He could see the man in every delicious angle, his every quivering movement. His pet was trembling before him, quaking in trepidation at the feet of his master. Just as it should be. But Sixer wasn't just shaking in fear. Oh no. He could feel the shame and self-loathing wrapped up in affection and raw desire. He could taste fury laced with anticipation. The things they got up to before everything fell apart. IQ had been thinking of it before, not a day ago. Was he thinking of that now? Even after seeing him break apart, even after seeing his brother dismantled bit by bit, the gore and viscera of it still cooling in the sand, did Stanford Pines still want him? Oh, his little Sixer was such a freak! He loved it.       

Oh, he knew IQ had it bad for him. He knew his little pet was so smitten that he had even considered joining Bill at one time. Little Sixer had thought it was the lowest he had sunk, so desperate to keep the kids safe that he was willing to give himself up. And he had been so ready to play hero. To be the martyr, and yet struggling to squash the rising anxiety of becoming one with Bill. Because that’s what would have happened; they would have shared a mind, shared a body when Bill wanted. The memory, the desire to be a willing puppet, to have a master had consumed Stanford until Stan had but in and taken the blow instead.

There was no Stan here to stop this from happening. He was Stan. He was Bill. He was Stanford’s worst nightmare and most beautiful dream.

He cocked his mouth (eye, now, wasn’t it, heehee) a feral grin as the red sky opened up and fragments of that damned hick town rained down onto the sand. Bits of metal from the water tower, the sign form the diner, bits of the stupid robot and cars from the used lot. They rained down into the water and the sand around them, causing the ground to buckle and quake beneath their feet. He giggled when Sixer dove for cover, clinging to the swing set for stability. Wouldn’t it be funny if the bars turned into giant spider legs and the chains snakes? He grinned when he heard Sixer’s scream. The eye blogs grew thick and sticky tentacles that lashed out and tried to wrap around IQ’s arms and legs, his neck or his middle.

His pet ran, instinct taking over and skirting the edge of the water trying to make it to the Stan O’War. This was gonna be fun. He let little Sixer get to the dock, let him see the kids and his brother calling out to him, reaching out to him just a few more inches. Their fingers brushed. He almost felt a twinge of remorse when he set the ship ablaze, the Pines family with it. The flags of the rest of the zodiac, along with Sixer’s precious little Fiddleford, flying on the main mast went up and puffs of flame and ash one by one as the inferno crept up the mast. Stanford screamed, tears streaming down his face as he watched and heard his family’s cries. Screaming for help, begging him to save them. But he couldn’t. He was turning to gold, starting at the feet and working its way up his legs, his groin, his ribs. Sixer was willing to throw away his family to keep Bill here, isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t it what he was trying to do? Distance them both from anyone and everyone they cared about. So why not set those memories alight? 

He was man enough to admit he was more than a little shocked when Stanford belted “ENOUGH!”, and the world around them went white. Oh ho, Sixer had learned a few tricks in the multiverse after all. This was going to be the most fun he’d had in decades. Finally, maybe someone who could actually give him a challenge. He knew he liked ol’Six-fingers for a reason.   

“Why are you doing this?” Why? Did Sixer just ask him why? He knew that Stanford could be dense sometimes, but this was pushing the boundaries of his patience. Sixer was playing at being ignorant, he had to be. Why was he doing this? Because he _was_ the monster Stanford thought he was.

“This is what you wanted. Me, a monster! This is how you see me, no matter what I do for you. This is how you’ll always see me!” This was what Sixer wanted. What he saw, even if he didn’t want himself to. What would hurt him the most? What would finally get through that damn metal plate and into that huge fucking brain of his that this was his reality now, and he had to fucking live with it. This was what Stanford wanted……

Blue fire crawled up his legs to his triangular form to burn away at his flesh until his human body remained. Stanley Pines stood in front of his brother in the blank void of the shared dreamscape dressed in the torn and blood drenched clothes from before. He panted with the effort, he was really wearing himself out with this. He wouldn’t be able to hold it for much longer. He took one last look at Stanford, the fear, the shame, the guilt dripping off him like the blood dripped of Stan. Good, bastard deserved it. But there was something else there too. Something that even after all this, all this smoke and mirrors to drive it home that he was a monster, Stanford still looked at him like that. With love, as reluctant as it was. There was nothing for it then. He was going to prove just how monstrous he could be. Would Stanford still love him then? Because it’s what Stanford wanted, even if he might not want it when they were through. He blinked, letting the blood drip from his mismatched eyes as he grinned at his twin. It’s what they both wanted… 

“Isn’t it Sixer?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stanford bolted awake drenched in sweat, his night shirt bunched midway up his back, sticking to his skin and his boxers twisted around his waist so that his balls swung freely against his right leg. He felt the cool drops of perspiration slide down his face, mixing with the unshed tears that stung his eyes, bringing fresh tears in a vicious cycle. He felt dizzy and his stomach lurched in a way that had him vaulting out of bed and through the door on instinct. 

He was in the bathroom, on his knees before he even though about what he was doing, retching up everything he had eaten in the past day. Gods. He hoped, prayed the kids hadn’t see any of that. What must they think of him? He berated their uncle in front of them, just as they were ready to accept the new reality they were given. But they couldn’t. He’d figured it out now, Bill’s plan. To wheedle his way into the kids’ lives, hearts and earn their trust and unconditional love. That was his plan, to act like Stan, to _be_ Stan and terrorized them from the inside. He was playing the long game, the long game that was turning into a frighteningly short one.

His stomach clenched painfully, disturbingly similar to the feeling of the bullet as it tore through his abdomen seven years ago. He was dry heaving now, his throat raw from forcefully emptying his stomach of its entire contents, bile and stomach acid burning the sensitive tissue as it worked its way up his esophagus. His mouth tasted bitter, long cleared of anything but the foul taste of stomach bile, the smell acrid and strangely sweet. What had he eaten last? Cotton candy? No, that hadn’t been real. What did he have for dinner? He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember much of anything past the incident on the beach. Even the interactions with the kids were fuzzy, like a half-remembered dream. Stanford wanted to laugh at the irony, but his head pounded and he didn’t think his body would react well to involuntary convulsions. But was it irony? Was it a dream? It had been so real. He’d felt it, his body turning to gold. The sensation of his limbs going numb bit by bit and being unable to move them. The smell of burning wood and cloth as the Stan O’War fed the eager flames. Was it a dream? His forebrain and logic center said no, it had all been an illusion. But his subconscious was in charge now, body working on instinct. He needed to help them, but he was of no use to anyone on the floor.

His body was shaking, he barely had the strength to stand. His arms uncooperative as he tried to push himself up off the floor using the toilet as leverage. His foot slid on the tile floor a few times before he was able to regain his balance and gingerly creep his way over to the sink. He left light and chilled, his hand hardly registering the cool water running over his hands as he cupped it under the faucet. It wasn’t potable, drawn fresh from the ocean, but it was enough to wash his mouth clear of the lingering taste from being sick. He squeezed his eyes shut and again saw the bloom of fire. There wasn’t time for this, the kids needed him.  

He stumbled to the door and into the galley, heart still pounding in his chest and in his head. He couldn’t think, could barely see – his glasses were likely still on the shared night table – and he was still too dizzy to take anything more but a few unsteady steps into the dark room. H felt the hairs on his arms and legs stand on end, the sounds from the ship eerily absent. Even the natural rocking from the waves was imperceptible. His eyes snapped open. Someone was watching him. The open portholes casting only minute light below decks. After thirty years traveling the multiverse, he’d learned to trust his instincts. His body was getting ready for an attack, even if one was not imminently obvious. Bill was around. Bill was here, he’d burned the ship. No, he was on the ship, so he couldn’t have. But the kids. The kids were in danger! And Stan…Stan was…

His head whipped around to face the door to the bedroom. There was a hulking figure blocking the light. Limbs the size of tree branches and massive enough to overpower him in his weakened state. The eyes burned in the darkness, reflecting what little light was available. They were staring at him, at his soul. Every fiber of his being, every instinct he had told him in that one moment…

RUN!

He bolted, bare feet slipping on the tile, the pounding of the thing following after him. The waves decided to come out of nowhere and fling themselves on the sides of the ship, throwing the tiny craft back and forth, the floor heaving and buckling as he clambered to the staircase. He needed to get to the beach, the docks. The kids were in the burning ship. Bill was going to kill them. He could still hear their screams echoing in his ears. Could still see their terrified faces as they strained to reach his outstretched hand every time he blinked. They were dying. They were burning alive and he was somewhere else. He couldn’t save them. Was he too late? He fell sideways into the wall, bracing one foot against the wood paneling and pushing off. He reached up one hand to grab hold of the upper deck floor through the opening when the trapdoor few shut; the force of it wedging the door into the frame. He pushed against the door, first with one hand, then both, throwing his weight into it over and over, but it wouldn’t budge.

He felt an arm wrap around his waist, another on his upper left arm, yanking him backwards. His nails scrapped at the wood surface of the trap door as he struggled in vain to find some purchase to get away from the thing. Was it Bill? Something else that had come through the rift? It didn’t matter, whatever it was was going to stop him from getting out. It was going to kill him! When his skin didn’t immediately burn, he ruled out several species of carnivores, when he landed against the broad torso, his mind filled in that whatever it was was humanoid. The hand on his arm let go to join the one around his waist and he lunged forwards to press again on the trap door. Nothing.

He felt himself being lifted, being pulled back from the exit. From safety. He needed to get out. He felt his shoulder brush the wall beside him. Was the room getting smaller? He was hyperventilating. It was getting hard to breathe. Or was that the arm now wrapped around his neck? Was it a third? How many arms did this thing have? He struggled against the grip, squirming, and twisting to break free, but whatever it was, held him fast. He kicked but only met with empty air. Everything was blurry, he couldn’t see. Too dark. No light. No air. Escape, escape!

 

***~*~*~*TW*~*This gets really bad. Major Dub-con/Bordering non-con*~*~*~TW*~*~*~***

The arm around his waist shifted, crossing his pelvis, and wrapping around the back of his left thigh. The fingers sliding up the hem of his shorts to brush the underside of his buttocks. He felt a chill seep into his skin. He heart stopped short in his chest and all air left his lungs when he heard that voice. The voice that could turn his blood into ice and take away all his logic and reasoning.

“Come on, Sixer…” But the rest of the beast’s words were lost in the grunt of pain as his elbow dug into Bill’s face. He was human again. Or had he always been? It didn’t matter, he needed to run. He needed to get as far away from Bill as he could. The kids were fine. He remembered. It was all just a dream. They were safe. Fiddleford was safe, Soos and Wendy were safe. They were far away from here, where he should be. Why had he not sunk the boat and left yet? Was he that desperate? No, he wasn’t. Not yet. He wasn't going to let Bill do whatever he wanted with his body. Not while he was still in control. Those days were long past. He felt Bill’s grip loosen, and he pulled as hard as he could on the door frame to pull himself free. But his arms were still weak. There was no strength in his hands as he was jerked back against Bill’s form, blood smeared over the back of his shirt from wherever he’d hit Bill. The heady odor filling his nose and making his head swim.

A third (or fourth) hand slid down the back of his shorts, tugging the waist band down to hook around the curve of his ass. Bill squeezed, letting his fingernails dig into the pliable flesh. The other hand let go of his thigh and palmed his groin, adding friction where none was wanted. God! He was getting hard from this. What the hell was wrong with him? Why? He didn’t want this? Did he? Maybe he had, but not like this. Never like this.      

He felt a tongue trace the star tattoo on his neck, covering each point before teeth sunk into the flesh just under his jaw. The sharp pressure enough to leave a bruise, canines breaking the skin. He wrenched his head down and away, twisting his torso to the side and angling to break Bill’ nose. He miscalculated, elbow connecting with his cheek instead. He pulled back to try again when Bill threw him. His body landed against something hard that gave slightly and he bounced. His head slammed against the hull of the ship. The pain clouded his vision and he flailed at empty air before he felt Bill pin him. They were on the cot. Bill sat on his lower abdomen and pelvis, using his weight to keep Stanford from throwing him off. Bill gripped both his wrists and brought them above his head, pressing them against the hull. The metal biting into his knuckles. He felt something rough wrap around his wrists. He jerked, but Bill just gripped his wrists harder and wound the rope tighter.      

“This is what you wanted, right?” The hands were all over him now, trailing down the undersides of his arms and jerking the collar of his shirt down. Tongue and teeth abused the already bruised skin of his neck. Fingers pinched his nipple through the sweat-damp nightshirt. He bucked, arching his back, and pulling his entire weight into it. His chin smacking into Bill’s forehead and he felt a twinge of satisfaction at the grunt of pain. All it did was unsteady Bill who reared back and slammed Stanford’s head back down into the mattress. Both hands this time forcing the nightshirt up to his chin, up and over his head to trap his arms.  

“Bill, no. Stop!”, but his words lost their potency as Bill rutted against his groin, drawing a shameful moan from his lips.

“But you want this, I know you do. I can see it. You think I can’t see into yer dreams, IQ?” It was Stan’s voice, Bill was still using his brother’s voice, even as he raked his nails down Stanford’s chest, leaving marks that wouldn’t fade for days. Bill shifted his weight back onto Stanford’s knees. Stanford tried again to buck him off, but he had even less leverage now and only bounced on the thin mattress. Bill produced a set of scissors as if from nowhere and tugged the cloth of Stanford’s boxers from his skin. The click of the metal at the first cut sent a spike of adrenaline through him as he tried to roll off the bed, taking Bill with him. Bill just adjusted his weight, rolling his hips to one side and pinning Stanford’s abdomen with his knee. Another snip, another jerk. The cold metal of the scissors grazed his balls.

“Bill, Stop it!”

“Yer gonna get stabbed if you keep it up.” Stanford wasn't sure if that was a warning so he wouldn’t hurt himself, or if Bill would stab him. He kept still, thighs quivering. Two more snips and Bill ripped the fabric away, tossing it over his shoulder. The cold night air ghosted over his already overheated groin, causing goosebumps to spring up. Bill resumed his place on Stanford’s knees, setting the scissors aside on the mattress. Could he risk it? Did Bill mean that thinly veiled threat? He could get out of this at full strength, but he still felt weak. Adrenaline could only make up for so much. Bill’s palm ran over his cock and balls, tugging roughly at the pubic hair while his other hand settled on Stanford’s chest.

Stanford bit into his cheek to hold back a whine. Bill’s hands were rough and calloused, nothing at all like the slick and smooth hands he remembered from before. The scratch of coarse hair from Bill’s legs against his knees, the soft pudge of a gut cradled between his thighs as Bill leaned over him. Yes, it was Bill, but it looked like Stanley. Felt and sounded like his brother. Maybe if he focused on that, his body would calm down and Bill would lose interest. Maybe.

It was worth it to try. Stanford squeezed his eyes closed and focused on the fact that it was his brother’s body above him, touching him, leaning in to run a heated tongue around his nipple. His brother was nipping at him with those disgusting yellow dentures, his perpetual stubble scratching and catching in the hair dusting his chest. It was Stan who ground his hips into Stanford’s leg, thick cock sliding up to his knee, leaving a wet streak in its wake. He briefly considered kneeing Bill, the pain of it a new experience, it might give him the advantage. He yelped as teeth sunk into his nipple just hard enough to not break the skin but to cloud his already wavering attention.

“You wouldn’t get far.” Fuck! Bill could read his thoughts! How could he have forgotten? And thinking of Stan, focusing on Stan wasn’t helping matters. He was still hard and every time Bill ground against him, his stomach would rub against his cock. Soft hair and even softer skin molding around his groin and giving the perfect amount of friction. He bucked into the touch. A reflex, nothing more. He didn’t want this; his body was working on instinct. He couldn’t help his physical reaction. It was like trying to stop from sweating on a hot day. He wasn’t getting off on this. He didn’t like this. He bit back a groan, choosing instead to pretend the reflex was another attempt to knock Bill off him.     

“I said NO!” He punctuated the remark with another jerk, rolling his whole body to dislodge Bill. All it did was add more fuel to the fire. Bill leaned further over him and groaned, long and loud. It filled his ears, filled his head, and filled his cock. Damn it! He needed to concentrate. He needed to think of something that would keep him from maintaining an erection. Anything! He choked on a breath when Bill grabbed hold of his cock and stroked it once from base to tip.   

“Yer cock says otherwise.” He knows. He needed to fix that. He yanked at the rope binding his hands, but with the shirt wrapped around his elbows and forearms, he couldn’t pull loose. He was too weak to push Bill off, too restrained to free his hands. This was happening. This was happening unless he did something to make Bill lose interest. What would turn Bill’s stomach. Bodily functions had bother him, right? He could try to do something. He was too hard to piss himself – he’d have to wait until he lost his erection for that – and no amount of forcing the muscle was going to work something out of an empty colon. He’d just emptied his stomach of its contents so there wasn't much he could work with. He could only hope to get rid of his erection long enough to empty his bladder. Bill would be thrown off enough to give him enough leverage to get up, at least. He could find a weapon in the galley. Maybe even the scissors Bill had. He had to think of how disgusting this was, how disturbing, revolting. He didn’t like this. He didn’t want it. This was his brother for God’s sake!       

Focus on Stan. This wasn’t Bill. He was attracted to Bill and this wasn't him. It wasn't his muse. It was his brother. It was Stanley. He wasn't attracted to his brother. His brother was brash, and loud and disgustingly hairy. He ate those nausea inducing toffee peanuts that always made him gag. He had let himself go in the thirty years they were apart. He’d lost his teeth, lost his hearing, gotten fat. Stanford wasn't attracted to that. So why was he still hard? Another stroke to his cock send his head back into the mattress, teeth biting his lips together to hold back a moan.

The hand on his cock, circling the base was thick, five fingers (not four) scarred and calloused from working the nets and the portal machinery before that. Stan’s hands. The same hands that broke his project and ruined his chances of getting into West Coast Tech. The same hands that stole countless things, touch countless people like this for money. The same hands that almost burned his research. The same hands that pushed him into the portal and spent the next thirty years committing crimes under _his_ name! Only to then tell him to keep away from the only other family Stanford had ever met!  

The same hands that worked tirelessly over the machines in the basement for thirty odd years. The same hands that read and re-read his journals. The same hands that comforted him, defended him, and retaliated when others ridiculed him. The same hands that helped bring their dream of sailing around the world to breathtaking life. The same hands that were held wide waiting for a hug after he’d walked through that portal. The same hands that protected the kids, protected the world…

The same hands that took Bill’s deal in his place. He felt something twist painfully inside his chest. It might have been guilt.

These were very same hands of the man that gave him a second chance, when he no doubt didn’t deserve one. The same hands of the man that did everything he could to bring his family home safe. That would do anything, _anything_ , for those he loved.

He felt his cock soften even as the hand wrapped around it continued to stroke. Even as he felt Bill thumb the head searching for beaded precum that wasn’t there. Even as Bill nosed at his throat, laving the skin with the flat of his tongue and lapping up the trickle of blood running down his neck to stain the sheets. Bill let out a guttural moan at the taste. Stanford barely registered the stubble scratching against his jaw, too lost in his own head. He only noticed that Bill was still grinding against his leg when he felt his hair catch in the fabric of Bills shorts.    

And Stan had loved him, hadn’t he? He must have to have done what he did. Stan loved him. Unconditionally and without shame. Stan had never called him a freak, hated the word, and had stood up to anyone that had ever dared to call Stanford that: adults and children alike. Stan had shielded him from the textbooks the children threw at him during show and tell, then afterwards told him that if Stanford liked the creepy shrunken head so much that he could keep it in their room: “as long as it’s face is turned away from my bed.” Stan had danced with him at prom after he’d been rejected, suits dripping with sticky punch. They’d even danced to Billie Holiday, ignoring the whispers and snide remarks as they laughed and sang together, rocking in a small circle. He’d been so damn happy then.    

Was it...no, it couldn’t have been. Could it? Stan had always been much more tactile than Stanford. Always the one to reach out to touch, to brush fingers, to knock knees, to elbow playfully, sometimes at nothing. Stan was always the one to initiate hugs, the one to wrap his arms around Stanford’s shoulders. Always the one to initiate contact. But that hadn’t meant anything. Had it?

Stanford had always felt…something out of place with Stan. Something that was supremely unusual. Something he hadn’t really noticed before he’d spoken to another classmate about their siblings. Admittedly, this classmate hadn’t been a twin, but it still felt like a gut punch when he realized that not all siblings felt like that. Stanford had wanted to keep Stanley. Stan was his. They didn’t need anyone else. But ultimately, Stan had. He needed something else to be happy. He’d needed Carla, he’d needed someone else. And Stanford had begrudgingly allowed it. He’d allowed his brother to have a girlfriend. Why would he allow it? How could he? He didn’t dictate his brother’s life? If he had, he would have stopped Stan from tampering with the perpetual motion machine. If he had, he would have made Stan pay attention in school. He would have…

He was jolted back to the present when he felt Stan’s tongue trail a slick line down his chest, his ribs, his abdomen. He clenched, muscles contracting reflexively at the touch. He felt his stomach churn, but it was a lost cause; there was nothing to come up even if he tried to force it. He shuddered when it traced around his navel, slipping over the skin, and matting the hair with saliva. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingernails digging into his palms in anticipation. The tongue dipped down into the crease of his thigh, following it down to his penis, half-mast and still too hard to try any diversion tactics.

Not that he’d get the chance with Bill nosing into the base. A mortifying whine escaped the back of his throat and Bill chuckled, his hot breath caressing Stanford’s hardening cock. He couldn’t keep it down. And his wrists burned with the force of trying to free them.

His mind blanked as Bill swiped the tip of his tongue along the length, taking the head between his lips and giving it a tender suck before letting it go with a pop. It wasn't until he felt more than heard Bill mumble into his pubic hair that he realized with no small amount of shame that he had screaming.

“God, you really _do_ want this…” Bill licked again.

“NO!” But again, it carried little weight when Bill took the whole thing into his mouth, heat like molten rock, tongue a damn lava river winding its way over his cock. He knew he was screaming, crying out, bucking his hips to get closer, over and over. He came back to himself long enough to jerk his hips away, away from that heat that felt so damned good. He was shaking again. Thinking of his brother had helped a little. He needed to do it again. Concentrate on Stan and he wouldn’t be hard. Concentrate on Stan and he might be able to empty his bladder all over Bill and make him just. Go. Away. Please…

Stanford felt blades of ice inter his veins when Stan griped the back of his thighs and wrap Stanford’s legs around himself. Stan ghosted his fingertips up the insides of his thighs, barely touching, ticklish in the right moment, but it just sent a series of hot and cold pulses seeping into his body.   

He didn’t want this. But it didn’t seem to matter what he wanted anymore. He wanted his brother back. He wanted to _want_ to stop loving Bill. He wanted this to be Stan! He…

He wanted this to be Stan…and it wasn’t. It was Bill. Bill inside his brother’s mind. Making his brother do this against his will. What was Stan thinking? Could he even see this? Was he aware of things? Was he watching Stanford? Watching him react to this? What must he think of Stanford now? Was he watching from behind trapped eyes and helpless as Bill used his hands to touch Stanford like this?

Hands that, slick with a bit of saliva, were rubbing against his sphincter.

Stan. He could get through to him. Maybe. He had to try if nothing else. Stan couldn’t want this. If he was in control, he couldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want this, even if Stanford was slowly realizing _he_ might.   

“Stop this. You don’t want this.” He jerked his hips away but Bill just gripped him tighter, repositioning and holding him down. Bill added more saliva to his finger and pressed in. It burned. 

“Fight it!” Even as he was fighting a losing battle against his own body. He was leaking precum now, and Bill gathered what he could on his fingers and added it to the pressure in his sphincter. It helped ease the burn, less dry, but still painful. His cock still rock hard. 

“Stan, stop!” A moan wrenched itself from his throat a second later when Bill wrapped a hand back around his cock and squeezed. The finger pressed deeper, path eased by more precum. Was Bill going to fuck him? Was he going to use Stan’s body to fuck him? Stanford couldn’t suppress the shudder that wracked his whole body. He didn’t want this to feel like it did. He didn’t want this to feel good. He didn’t want to like this. 

“Stan” But god he did. This was so messed up. _He_ was messed up. This wasn't the time! Bill had just given him the worst nightmare, the sadistic fuck! He’d just been sick! He’d woken up thinking he was being chased by something from the multiverse. Why was he hard!? Why was he moaning like a cheap whore!? Why was he canting his pelvis up to meet Bill’s fingers? No…it wasn't Bill. Stan. Stan’s fingers. He was hard because _he_ was a sick fuck getting off on his brother touching him. What would Stan think of him after this? If he ever got his brother back, would he even want to be around Stanford? Knowing that his brother had willingly been fucked by Bill while he controlled Stan’s body?

More fingers pushed in with even more slick precum. He could feel Stan’s cock against his inner thigh; Bill must have pulled it free at some point. The head drawing sticky lines on his skin. He convulsed, sphincter tightening around the two fingers scissoring in him. Bill, no…who was he kidding. Even if it was Bill, he saw Stan. **Stan** grunted, rolling his pelvis and brushing his cock against the underside of Stanford’s ass. Stan gripped his left leg and threw it up over his shoulder, spreading Stanford wide and pulling him closer. The fingers were removed. 

“Stanley, please…” Hardly a whisper, lips trembling. Debauched, restrained and quivering. Stan froze, blinking slowly. Staring at him, shell-shocked. He’d gotten through.  

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

All at once, he came back to himself. Like he was waking up from a vicious nightmare only to realize he’d actually done it. He blinked rapidly, willing the scene before him to disappear, willing it not to be true. But it wouldn’t go away, still there every time he squeezed his eyes shut until they hurt and opened them again. Stanford was still beneath him, still stripped bare and still shaking. He was going to do it. He was going to, even though Ford had said no. He’d heard him. Every time Ford had begged him to stop ringing in his ears, amplified by the hearing aid he didn’t need anymore but wore out of habit. He’d ignored it, laughed at Ford’s pleading. What was wrong with him? Was he really so far gone? Was he really that kind of monster?

Yes.

He was.

Because he had wanted it. Had enjoyed it. Had loved the taste, the feel of Stanford. Loved being above him, being in control. Every gasp, every moan was burned into his memory. He shivered as they replayed in his head. He remembered, how could he not, he was there. He had done this. He’d lost control of himself acted without thought. Ford had fought him, tried to get away. Stanford didn’t want this. Of course, he didn’t.

But he _had_ wanted Bill.

He felt sick. And he was hard. Still hard even after realizing how much Ford didn’t want it, how hard he’d fought to get away. Had Stan really threatened to stab him? Why? What was he doing?

He felt his mouth fill with saliva. He was going to puke.

He scrambled away from the bed, away from the room, away from Ford, and dove to the engine room, door slammed shut and bolted from the outside and he didn’t even care how anymore.

He collapsed on the floor, the thrum of the engine in his ears as he threw up stomach acid, bile, and blood. The memory of Ford’s pleas for him to stop louder than even than the engine. He heaved until he had nothing left, spitting out mucus and saliva.

He just missed the puddle as the strain from the night finally pulled him under.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, gonna get serious here for a moment. These next few chapters are going to deal with a lot of heavy topics. I'm going to be talking about abusive relationships, gaslighting, co-dependence, and phycological manipulation. No party is safe here, Bill, Stan and Ford are all victims and perpetrators in the last leg of this story. I know it's been kind of light or at least a light portrayal of heavy topics, but I'm really going to delve in here. I will do my best to mark specific trigger warnings, but consider this an overarching trigger warning for the rest of the story.


	20. When Everything Else is Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan doesn't handle things well. Stanford is no better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, So I've been working on this for a month now, and everything I had planned just fell apart. I thought this was going to go one way, and instead, they wouldn't let me. Bottom, line, it just wasn't working. So that's why it took so long to update. I've got the next chapter already half-done, so another update will come sooner rather than later. I'm not dead guys. Promise.
> 
> MAJOR GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AHEAD!!!!!!

Stanford just lied there, gasping in and out, chest and abdomen heaving. His wrists burned with every movement, his arms strained against the ropes. He didn’t need to hear the slam of the bulkhead to know that Bill had locked himself away in the improved prison they had used once not too long ago. Bill had struggled with his magic for about a full day to fix the door after Stanford's last night terror. He knew where Bill had gone. Or…was it Stan? He didn’t know! He’d called out to his brother, but had Stan actually responded? Was he still there? Was his brother still in there? Struggling for control?

He felt something cool slide over his wrists, burning away at the rope, a stray remnant of magic left. He could untie himself now, get dressed and leave. He…he was in no danger…probably. The bulk head was closed, and Bill was low on magic after dream weaving with four minds. He could get up and pretend that this never happened. Pretend that Bill wearing Stan’s face hadn't just...just tried to…to…

He was safe now. He was…he was safe. Bill wasn’t going to hurt him. Stan was in control. Stan wouldn’t hurt him. He was safe.

But he wasn’t okay.

Not in the slightest.

And he was still hard. And the ghost of Stan’s rough and calloused hands running over his skin was doing nothing to alleviate it.

A pitiful whimper escaped his throat even as he tried to quiet it. Why was he still hard? Every fiber of his being had been against what Bill was doing. He had used Stan’s form – while Stan was still aware – to try and rekindle what they’d had before he figured out what Bill was planning. Bill wasn’t stupid. Woefully flawed and was confused by seemingly simple things such as toasters, but Bill understood what sex was. At least, understood what it was in relevance to humans and human relationships.

But understand what it was and what it meant did nothing when Bill had not had a physical body to do anything with. Was that why he had tried to force this? Now that he was in Stan’s body, was he trying to experience what it was to be human in the long term?

Stanford felt a pulse of heat race through his veins.

Stanford wasn’t so wrapped up in his own denial as to say that he wouldn’t like that. Fuck! If Bill had his own body, even the one he’d had during his brief takeover of Gravity Falls…

Stanford felt himself shudder at the thought, cock throbbing as he imagined slick hands on him. He’d wanted Bill to stop, but he had no real reason for it. Because he _had_ wanted it. Desperately. As much as he hated Bill for everything he’d done, Stanford wanted him. He didn’t want to. He _wanted_ to be able to put Bill in his past and keep him there. Or rather…he _wanted_ to want to. Because he didn’t. God he was sick! And still fucking hard!

He growled at his own lack of self-control. He was weak. And sick. A freak. Even more so than he had thought because apparently thinking of his brother, acknowledging that it was his brother’s body over him had only made him want it more! In his mind, the images of Bill and Stan blurred together, contrasting hands, slick and rough, voices overlapping like some distorted horror track, both saying the same words. Telling him how much they wanted him, how much they loved him. He felt tears bead at the crease of his eyelids.

Why was he like this? Why did he have to be this way? Wasn’t he already fucked up enough? He felt another jolt of lightning when he clenched and unclenched his sphincter. Bill had just had his fingers there. The sharp sting of too much friction giving way to a slick glide. Stan hadn’t gotten deep enough to hit his prostate. But his mind filled in the gaps. 

He remembered what it felt like. Admittedly, it as just a mental projection of a tactile response built of predicted nerve signals, but he very much remembered what Bill fucking him with those tentacles had felt like. What would it have been like with Stan? He felt the dry precum in his thighs pull at the sensitive skin, the ghost of Stan’s cock teasing. He canted his hips into nothing, pitiful whimpers dripping from his mouth.        

God damn it! He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything right this moment. He wanted to feel Bill’s – Stan’s, FUCK it didn’t matter anymore – hands on him, inside him, over every part of his body. He wanted it, needed it, and yet the thought was painful. Shameful. Why the HELL had he told Bill to stop!?

Stanford yanked at his wrists and felt the cord come loose, the frayed ends draping over his head and hair on the pillow beneath. He wasted no time ripping off the shirt tangled on his forearms. No time to be delicate, no time for foreplay. He needed this now! A six-fingered hand wrapped itself around his straining erection and Stanford felt a spark envelope his body. Images of Stan, of Bill, of both of them filled his mind. Ghostly images of hands on him, following his movements, touching him right where he wanted it most. He tucked away the extra pinky, pretending the rough touch was from someone else, was from….FUCK!

He didn’t want that! It was his brother for GOD’S SAKE! But he couldn’t deny that the feel of Stan’s hand on him felt otherworldly. That the image of Stan with his grinning lips wrapped around his cock had sparked something he didn’t want to think about. God, did Stan know how to give head! Stanford pushed the thought of _where_ Stan learned how to give head out of his mind. The wet slide of a molten tongue, the briefest of suction at the head, the tiniest scrape of fake enamel. 

Stan had lost his teeth over the years, what would it feel like without the yellowed dentures?

Stanford's mind reeled at the image of Stan on his knees in front of him. God! His memory filled in what that damn tongue had felt like on his skin. How damn hot Stan’s mouth had been. His hand gripped his shaft tightly as he imagined Stan taking the full length into his mouth again. Of letting Stanford go at his own pace, of face-fucking his brother, Stan’s mouth pliant and open, lips dragging with each thrust, fingers kneading at Stanford’s thighs. He rolled his hips into his fist, pretending he could feel Stan’s heat, his passion. Stanford whimpered as the ghost of a gravel voice mixed with a cackle filled his ears and yellow eyes filled his mind.   

He felt a twist in his gut, he wanted to throw-up, to dig a knife into his skin, to drink poison that would burn the thought out of his head. But denying it served no purpose. It hadn’t done him any good before, so why would it be magically better now?

The Stan in his mind gazed up at him with yellow eyes, light glinting, corners quirked in a grin. Stanford imagined gripping the black bowtie wrapped around his neck, knocking off the top hat from his silver hair. His skin a golden hue as Stanford cupped his cheek. He could almost hear the moan rumbling up from Bill’s throat, only to realize it was coming from himself.

He was working himself at a breakneck pace, hand practically a blur and the harsh slap of skin on skin filling the empty room, dancing in the air with his desperate moans and whimpers.

Something was seriously wrong with him because in no way could he rationalize this. In no way could this make any logical sense. He wanted Bill, but GOD, did Bill looking and acting like his brother set his blood aflame. He wanted Bill, but in that moment, he had, damnit, _wanted_ it to be Stan. But why?! He wasn’t attracted to his brother!

Wasn’t he?

The rush he felt when he imagined Stan’s voice in his ear told him otherwise. He really was a freak, wasn’t he? The feeling of his body tensing, told him yes. He was close, stupidly, pathetically close to coming undone from thinking about Stan. He rolled his hips again, biting back a cry. 

He didn’t know what was going to send him to Hell first, loving and desiring an interdimensional being that wanted to burn dimensions for fun, or lusting after his own twin brother. God, what was wrong with him?!

The image of Stan on his knees slowly blurred and dissolved into that of his muse. Bill on his knees before him, taking his cock into that strange eye-mouth of his. He whined. He was closer, god he was so close. And hearing Bill speak with Stan’s voice, calling him ‘Poindexter’, telling Stanford that he was proud of him, that he loved him…that gravel harsh tone that haunted his dreams for decades, it finally sent him over the edge.

In the throes of ecstasy, Stanford sunk his teeth into the flesh of his hand, tearing the skin and filling his mouth with blood as images of his brother with pale yellow eyes filled his mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he opened his crust sealed eyes again. Didn’t know how long the congealed vomit had been cooling against the side of his face. His glasses had been knocked off, skittering somewhere over the diamond plate floor. His vision a blur of shapes and muted colors until he scraped off the gunk from his eyes, feeling the lashes pull and losing more than a few of them. Not that it mattered, odds are they would grow back in a few minutes.

His reaction time was heavily impaired. He felt drunk, wasted, or like he’d taken too many hits in a bar brawl. Had he gone on a bender with Rick? Where they hell was Beth? Was she ok? He rose, shaking, to his knees and felt the cool slick of vomit peel from his skin. The odor was rank, acrid, and familiar. God, what the hell had he taken? He felt along the floor for his glasses, blinking in hopes that his vision would clear. His hands grazed the texture floor, sharp edges where the steel molding process was unrefined catching in his fingers, leaving small cuts and scrapes. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his eyelids closed hard enough to distort the shape of his eyes. he could feel them shift, become move oval as the sclera adjusted to the new pressure. When he opened his eyes again, he could see, the blur of the room came into focus, the colors became brighter, more defined, shapes had sharp edges and he found his glasses quite easily after that. He snatched them up, lenses down on the metal flooring - thankfully spared any scratches - and slotted them onto his face, grimacing at the way the residual sick spread further over his face.

He needed to get cleaned up before he went looking for Beth, then he could ring Rick’s neck for forgetting about his own daughter. Not that _he_ was any better, he’d woken up in a pile of his own sick after all. Man, he should not have kids. Kids are a pain, a real hassle, but he was a shitty caretaker to boot. There was no way he was going to be able to take care of a kid. And what happens when they start walking, start learning about the world? What happens when they start asking questions he doesn’t want to answer? Hell, what if he can’t answer them? He’s not the smart one, Rick’s the genius. Rick is the one with all the answers, though he might just give you the wrong one for shits and giggles.

He loved the man, but Rick can be a jerk sometimes, and that was saying a lot coming from a jerk like him. Sure, Rick had his smarts, but he was woefully unprepared to take care of a two-year-old. _He_ was a better parent to Beth, sweet kid. Always wanting hugs and airplane rides from her ‘uncle Stan’. Shit, he needed to find her! What was she wearing the last time he saw her? That pink and white spotted dress with the purple knitted cap, right? But he needed to find out where he was first. Okay, what did he remember? He was, he’d gotten into a fight. Was it a bar fight? Had they crossed paths with Rico again? Wait, no…no it was just him and another guy. He remembered there just being just one other person. He was winning, maybe. He had the other guy pinned.

He lurched forwards, grabbing onto the edge of the table filled with Rick’s experiments. Least, he was sure it was Rick’s. His legs were shaky, and he stumbled with every step. His mind was a foggy mess, he couldn’t have told you what year it was, let along what day or what he’d been doing the night before. GOD DAMN! He was layin’ off-a the booze and shit from now on. Rick can get all mopey if he wants. Stan was gonna stay sober after this shit. Someone had to take care of Beth.

He was in a room, all metal, could be a warehouse. There was even some machinery chuggin’ away that took up a good chunk of it. The table offered no real help, just a bunch of beakers and titration do-dads, a Bunsen burner, and a bunch-a jars with weird fish in them. Nothin’ looked familiar, but then again, he didn’t understand anything of what Rick did anyhow.

Okay, so he was in a warehouse…type…place, he’d gotten into a fight with some guy…wait, was it a fight? He remembered roughin’ the guy up, but….shit, he remembered a lotta skin. Miles and miles of really, really nice skin. Had he hooked up with some guy? Did he get paid? Wasn't Rick, that’s for sure; they flirted a hell of a lot, but Rick and him had never so much as kissed. Not that he didn’t want to, but Rick was…well, Rick was Rick.

So he’d fuck some random dude. Ok. Okay. He could handle that. A quick search of his pockets told him he was in his underwear…and that he didn’t have pockets. And that he was a hell of a lot fatter and older than he should be.

The HELL!?

What the HELL HAPPENED?!!

DID RICK DO THIS?!

FUCK THAT GUY!

SCREW HIM!

No, DON’T screw him! Rick can go lie in a ditch somewhere! He would take Beth and go up to Oregon to see Ford….

Ford….

Wait.

Stanford…

Stanford had reached out to him.

Gravity Falls.

They fought. All over some stupid journal.

Ford fell. Gone thirty years.

He got him back just a few months ago. With the kids…and Soos.

Oh.

Beth was gone.

Rick was gone.

They were…they were on the Stan O’War…

They’d fought.

Ford had tried to run. He’d….oh…god….

Stan lost his grip on the table and slammed onto the floor on his knees, pain shooting up from his kneecaps and telling him they were likely bruised, if not bleeding. He felt like throwing up again. What had he done? How could he? And he’d just left him there! What they hell kind of brother was he?

No, this was better. Ford might be stuck but it was better than being around him right now. Stan isn’t safe right now. But, he’d let him go, right? He’d…burned the…rope, right? Ford could get up and leave. FUCK! He didn’t know! And he couldn’t risk going out to check. He had lost control of himself so easily, what’s to stop it from happening again? No, he couldn’t leave. He’d just stay in here. He had to. He wasn't safe. Ford wasn't safe with him.

The memory of it made his head swim.

It had been far harder to pull away than it should have been. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to give Sixer what he wanted, give him the animal Ford saw him as. But the desperate plea calling out his name, calling out ‘Stan’, he couldn’t. Not Ford. He wouldn’t let himself be that much of a monster. Not Stanford. Never Stanford. Even if he wanted to. And, GOD, did he want to. And he knew that at one-point Sixer had wanted it. At one time, Sixer had practically begged for it. Sixer had wanted him so desperately that he had forgone all reason in an attempt to bridge the gap between their worlds.   

But Stanford didn’t want him. He wanted Bill. Ford wanted someone who wasn’t there. Who shouldn’t be there. Ford loved a monster that didn’t deserve his love. Sixer loved Bill, loved a daemon that did nothing but abuse and manipulate him. That told him that he was bound for greatness, told him that they would change the world. Ford loved a monster that had every intent to spend the rest of eternity abusing his newfound pet. Because he would have kept Sixer, his little Fordsy, his adorable little pet. Would have kept him by his side, would have given him anything he wanted. Would have done anything he wanted, if only Ford would have joined him. He would have kept the kids – been repeatedly tempted to change up their faces and grind them into dust – but he would have kept them for Sixer. He would have shown Ford the universe, everything in it. They could have ruled the entire dimension, just the two of them, gods among ants.

Instead...instead he got careless. instead he got angry, jealous. Instead, he got impatient and arrogant, and it was his downfall. He hadn’t expected Sixer to say ‘no’, he hadn’t expected the kids to be as clever as they were, he hadn’t predicted that Shooting Star to be willing to leave her fantasy world behind. He hadn’t predicted that there would be enough blind courage among the denizens of the town to actually prove to be a challenge. He hadn’t predicted that after all that time, that Stanford would have chosen his brother over his muse. Who’d a thought they would one day be one in the same.    

But the end result was nothing short of perfect. This had been what he wanted his entire life; just to be with his brother. He was with Ford, and it was just them. Just them and nothing else. They could still be together. They could still do the things they always wanted to do. He could still be with the one person he loved more than anything. Except…

Except Ford didn’t love him. Not like he was now. He was human…he had spent the last sixty years living as a human, living as Ford’s twin. And Ford didn’t want Stan. Ford didn’t love Stan. 

*~*~*~*~*~*Explicit Violence and Gore Warning*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sixer loved _him_ , but only when he did bad things. Only when he didn’t deny who he was. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t ever supposed to be. He’d begged to be spared and his wish was granted. For his crimes, he got to re-live everything, got to live an entire life trapped in a human form. He got to live as Stan. But as much as he pretended, he wasn’t Stan. He never was….and denying it wasn’t the answer. He loved Ford. Would do anything for him. He would do anything…even if it made him sick, even if it…could he? Could he do this? Be who he’d been? Anything but that! ANYTHING ELSE! He would die for this man, he would kill for this man – has killed – GOD DAMN IT! WHY!? Why this? Why Bill? What did Bill do to earn Ford’s love when Stan couldn’t? He didn’t deserve it! He didn’t deserve it. Stan didn’t deserve it either. But even if he didn’t, Ford did still love him.

But…just, not as he was. Not now.   

Only when his eyes were yellow. He glanced at his reflection in the glass beaker at eye level. His eyes were brown. Horribly, boringly brown. That wouldn’t do. They weren’t his eyes. They were his human eyes. His fake ones. The ones Sixer hated. He reamed at them, pushing them into his eye sockets and trying to pop them. They weren’t the right eyes. They were the eyes Sixer hated. It hurt. A lot. But pain was funny again. Not like it used to be. When he went to look again he saw that his eyes were the right color if a bit fuzzier than they should be. There were two of them. He used to have only one. He could do that. Maybe. He couldn’t concentrate enough to make his magic do what he wanted; all but drained after last night - or was it earlier that night? He could still fix it, he just needed something sharp. Sixer kept sharp things in here, didn’t he? He stumbled to his feet, searching the table were IQ kept his beakers of the more toxic things he played with.

There was a scalpel, a set of tweezers and other things he couldn’t put a name to right now. Not one in a human language anyway. This body’s coordination was terrible. He knocked over several glass jars and beakers reaching for the scalpel, the contents spilling in small clouds of dust, and splashes of fluid that mixed together and started smoking. He reached for the scalpel again, instead, grabbing a shard of glass from the broken jar with the ground fish scales. It would do. Might even be sharper than the scalpel. Deformed silicone molecules tended to form hyper sharp edges. It was perfect.

He brought the shard up to his face, inspecting the conchoidal fracture and ultimately deciding that it was indeed sharp enough. Now which one was gonna go. Right? Or left? He closed each eye, one after the other gauging how it felt, how much effort it took to close each one, what perspective felt more right. Eenie-meanie-miney mo. Which eye would have to go? He really needed the eye in the middle of his face, but it was unlikely that he could force that. It would take way too much magic, and too much surgery to get right. Right…right, starboard, dextral…

He closed his left eye again. He could see still, and things shifted in practically imperceptible ways. Right. Right. He opened his left eye and closed his right. He made his decision. Stabby, Stabby! 

He brought the glass shard up to his face, up to his eyes and took a swipe at his eye but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. He missed, scraping across his cheek instead. The skin parted, uneven, and shallow. Hardly a scratch despite the amount of blood welling to the surface. He giggled, oh, oopse, well, time to try again. He took another swipe at his eye, but he kept blinking, eyes watering. This was going nowhere.

Stupid human automatic functions. He just wanted to keep his eye open, but his lid kept closing. Every time he brought the shard of glass near his eye, his lid would close, even when he tried to force it open. He squeezed the shard tighter in his fist, the jagged edges slicing into the meat of his hand. The pain was dull, barely there, barely noticeable. That wasn’t important right now. His fucking eyelid wouldn’t stay open! He set the pointed edge of the shard against the bridge of his nose and drug it diagonally across his eye. He could feel the skin part under the edge of the glass, the smooth conchoidal fracture creating a perfect blade edge that slid through his skin with hardly any resistance. He could feel the blood well up, the skin separating under his fingers. The pain was sharp, his eyes instinctively watering more, blood and tears running down his face. The salt just stinging the wound and enhancing the pain. The pain was real, sharp, the blood pungent. But he hadn’t cut all the way through the skin of his eye lid. His eye was still intact, though he couldn’t lift the lid to check for sure.

He needed something else, something better. Something to make him feel just a little more normal. He was finally going to be himself again. The first step. He was only supposed to have one eye, right? He’d lived for over a millennia with one. He just needed to fix it. The glass didn’t work, so he needed something else. He swept his arm across the counter again, knocking over glass beakers and slicing his arm open on the shards; caustic substances burning away at his skin, leaving behind trails of foul smelling smoke as it ate away at the flesh of his arm. He held one hand to his eye, blood seeping between the gaps and trailing sticky rivulets down his arm. Why? Why was he holding it? Was it some kind of human instinct thing? It made no sense, but he held it there anyway as he searched for something more substantial to finish the job. He spotted a glint of something reflective roll through some strange blue liquid ( _Copper sulfate pentahydrate solution_ ). It was perfect.       

He cackled as he brought a pair of pointed tweezers to his left eye. Sixer was gonna be so happy. He was gonna look normal again. He was gonna _be_ normal. He was gonna be himself. Finally. After all this time. He was going to see the world as he should see it. He felt glee as he shoved the tweezers into the eye and felt the aqueous humor drain. 

*~*~*~*End of Graphic Violence*~*~*~*   

Stanford wrapped a towel around his waist, though there really wasn't a reason to. He was alone, as much as one could be with a dream daemon locked away on a tiny ship. He leaned into the door, posture drooping, damp hair leaving a dark stain on the wood. He’d taken a shower immediately after sitting up and leaving the bedroom, washing the evidence of one more shame down the drain. The air was cold now, the water droplets beaded on his skin making it even worse as his hair stood on end to retain some heat near his body. He hardly noticed. He was shaking, but not from the cold.

He was afraid. He was afraid of what Bill would make Stan do. He was afraid of what his reaction would be. Would he fight back and possibly hurt his brother? Would he let it happen? Would he want it? He slumped against the door, legs no longer holding him up, he slid to the floor.   

What was he supposed to do now? Where were they supposed to go from here? Was this going to happen again? Was he safe? Stan had regained control. He was himself long enough to stop it from happening. But…how long could he _stay_ in control? Bill was stronger. Bill was always stronger. And it didn’t help that Stanford couldn’t figure out what the hell he wanted. He felt weak. He felt sick. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted his brother, dammit!

Stanley. Stan wasn’t gone. Stan was in there still. Even through the fear and the confusion, Stanford felt a wave of relief wash over him. Stan wasn’t gone. Bill was in control, but Stan was still in there. Stan had responded when he called out to him. Stan had saved him. He could still get his brother back. His hands clenched and unclenched, nails scaping against the door. He’d gotten used to being alone over the decades. He used to pride himself on his ability to disconnect from his emotions, his baser needs. But...Stan. God, after coming back, to being greeted by the kids, and Stan, he’d gotten used to light touches, warm hugs, pats on the back. In the few months he’d been home, he had gotten so used to it that just over a month without made him crave it.

Maybe that was why he was torn about what happened. He didn’t want it, but he craved the touch, the affection that usually came with it. He wanted it to be Stan because Stan was the one he wanted affection from. He wanted it to be the way it used to be when physical affection was easy between them. When there was no underlying conflict, nothing but the swell of feeling when sharing touch.

If…if Stan had gone slow, had let him calm down first, had…maybe he would have been okay with it. Maybe he would have enjoyed the intimacy. Maybe it could have been how it was…would he taste that same? The memory of Bill’s taste had faded over the decades, but he never forgot it entirely. It was a depraved and guilty pleasure of his to mix tonic water and energy drinks any time he was able to snag both in the multiverse. Would Stan taste like that? No, of course he wouldn’t. Stan was human, he would taste like, well probably Pitt cola and cigars. But...would he…would they…? DAMN IT!     

He squeezed his eyes closed to stem the flow of tears. Here he was again, forced to choose between his brother and the one being he had absurdly and forsakenly fallen in love with. Was it love, though? He was bordering on obsession. This was so far beyond healthy that it was laughable. Why? Why Bill? Every time he tried to define why he love that monster all he could ever conclude was that, he always had. Logically, that couldn’t be the case as he had only known Bill for a few short years, but it still felt so familiar. It _felt_ like he had loved Bill forever. Just like he had loved Stan forever. Stanley was his brother, the one that had been with him from literally the beginning. Stanford could try and convince himself otherwise all he wanted, but nothing would ever change that. Stanford Pines loved his brother, end of story, no matter what hair-brained scheme he came up with or project he destroyed. Stanford would always love him. And now, now Stan was sitting in a self-imposed prison thinking god-knows-what and…this was all too much.

He was calm…-er now, he was clear headed. While not completely at full strength, he could carry a weapon. He needed to check on Stan, if Stan was still in control. If not, then he would wait. He was good at waiting.

On shaky legs, Stanford stood from the floor and felt the towel fall to the floor with a flop. He was numb to the cold now. He took a few tentative steps out into the galley, keeping his back to the counter and eyes trained on the bulk head. There was no movement or sound he could detect, but the door was well insulated. He crept backwards to the bedroom, resisting the instinct to jump every time something in their cramped living space came into contact with his backside. He dressed hurriedly once he was safety behind the door.    

*~*

OK, okay. It was going to be fine. He had his pistol set to stun. It would give him just enough time to get out and lock the door behind him. He was just checking on Stan. He was just making sure that Stan was okay, that they were okay, that this was all Bill’s doing and they were still going to stay together. They weren’t going to let this come between them. He had to explain, he had to talk to Stan.

His nose wrinkled at the smell as the bulkhead swung free. Acrid, Sulfurous, and mixed with the pungent scent of acid and smoke. The smell of sweat and urine came next, fainter, but growing stronger the further he stepped into the room, pistol held in front of him at the ready. The constant thrum of the engine dulled to a low purr while they sat idle in the water. His eyes adjusted slowly, he had lost his ability to recognize things in the dark; too complacent, too confident in his surroundings. But this was just Stan. It was his brother, really his bother this time, and Stan needed help. 

“Stanley, are you…Stan?” He could just make out a figure hunched in the corner in the darkness. The outline of his body just perceptible from the surrounding darkness. He flicked on the light, illuminating the room with dim blue light from the ceiling mounted fluorescent bulbs. He noticed the puddle of sick first. Then the mess on his work table…then the blood. There was a lot of blood.   

“Stanley?” His brother was huddled in the corner muttering to himself. Voice low, imperceptible, and blending in with the rumble of the engine. He would have missed it, had he not been listening for it. The trail of blood and sick lead to the corner that Stan was curled into, his feet and shorts stained with a variety of orange and red hues. Stanford rounded the puddle when he saw Stan flinch, turning his face just enough to watch him.

“Get away.” Stan’s voice was low, horse from being sick and strained. He was in pain. He was bleeding. And he wasn’t healing. Least, not that Stanford could see.

“I Said GET BACK!” He dodged as something sailed through the air in his general direction. It would have missed him had he stood still. This was new behavior for Bill, but achingly familiar. This was Stan. Could be no other in the multiverse. Stan would hide his pain, throw insults and sometimes things to hide how badly he was hurt. He’d make up excuses for limping, for bruises, and scrapes. He never liked for Stanford to see him hurt. But he had to be sure. He wasn’t going to be fooled again. He slowly approached his brother, taking slow and deliberate steps. Hands held out in front, weapon held loosely; a threat, but not an imminent one. As long as Stan didn’t attack, he was safe. They were both safe.

“Stan…why are you bleeding?” Stan flinched, turning his face back towards the corner, watching Stanford from the corner of his visible eye. Stanford took a moment to glance to the mess of his less important experiments. He had no doubt that there was a fight. What did Bill make him do?

“I’m not going to hurt you. Please.” He took another small step towards Stan, holding out one hand in an attempt to calm his brother. He wasn’t expecting the laughter that Stanford labeled as ‘unhinged’. He tightened his grip on the pistol, finger brushing against the trigger.

“You should.” Stan’s voice was soft and filled with a turbulence of emotions. It made Stanford’s chest ache. “I know you want to.”    

 He took a steadying breath and swallowed. His tongue felt swollen, like it was trying to choke him. “What do you mean?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. He met Stan’s eye as he stepped to the right, trying to get a better look at Stan’s face. He was hiding behind one bloodied and mangled hand. The blood was far worse that he realized. The slick mess coated Stan’s face, his hand and arm, and seeped into his shirt. The white fabric absorbing the pigment until it dripped with it.

Stan’s eyes flicked to his side arm, watching it warily. No, not…Stan wasn’t afraid that Stanford would shoot him. Stan was watching it like he wanted it. Like he was begging for it. Stan met his eyes again and he could see the turmoil spinning behind his brother’s face.

“I’m not safe.” The words shot like a bullet through his chest. And he would know what they felt like, too. His fingers loosened. The clatter echoed as it reverberated off the walls, a cacophony almost drowned out by the beating of his own heart. _That, no, he can’t…that’s….Never. Never!_

Stanford stumbled to his knees and crawled the last foot to kneel before his brother, their knees smacking together when Stanford pressed into his brother’s space. He brought a shaking hand up to cup Stan’s cheek, smearing blood and tears over the tanned skin. His other hand hung in the air between them. He shouldn’t be hesitating, Stan needed help. He flexed his fingers, rolling the air across his six knuckles before cupping Stan’s bloodied hand covering his left eye. He tried to pry the hand away, but Stan only turned further into the corner.     

“Stan, look at me. Show me your eyes.” He felt Stan’s shoulders shake with a stuttering and silent laugh. Fear gripped Stanford’s core and dragged it down, down, down…

“Eyes? You wanna see my ‘eyes’?” the laughter was audible now, the sick sound twisting Stan’s words until they were poison. He wasn’t even sure if this was Stan anymore. His thumb twitched for the pistol resting on the steel floor a few feet away. Stan turned to his brother, laughing and grinning through the pain. When Stanford tugged at Stan’s hand again, it came away easily, flipping to lace their fingers together and smear the gore over his own hand.

“Sorry, Sixer, but I seem to have misplaced one.” His grin was inhuman.      

“Shit! Stan, what the hell!?”

In all his years in the multiverse, Stanford had seen firsthand the results of violence. The gore, the mutilated flesh, the sticky and gooey bits that would break the minds of those unaccustomed to it – he wasn’t sure if his mind _wasn’t_ broken. But Stan’s face was more than he could take.

There were three near centimeter wide gashes from the bridge of his nose, across is eye and back towards the temple. They crisscrossed over one another, the middle one looking as though it was cut in the opposite direction to the others; like he’d been sloppily drawing lines with whatever he’d used to eviscerate his face.  

It was safe to say that the eye was a lost cause. There wasn’t anything in the eye socket but a deflated sack of mangled tissue. The eyelid looked as though it had been fed through a shredder. It was cut in several places, some dividing the thin tissue entirely. The entire left side of his face was coated in blood, and the viscous fluid from his drained eye. It dripped passed his lips, down his chin and finally soaked into the already ruined shirt, thick and crimson with blood already. The smell was nauseating.

_If I ever get the chance, I’m going to find a way to wring his neck. Fuck, Bill!_

_Door’s already open, Nerd, all ya gotta do is reach for it. I won’t stop ya._ Stanford flinched at the voice in his head. Unsure if it was Bill speaking to him again or if he was finally disassociating from the trauma. He decided to ignore it for now, instead, focusing on the immediate problem of Stan bleeding out.

“Stanley, listen to me. You need to concentrate. This is serious. If you remember at all how to heal this, I need you to try. Bill’s magic works on instinct. If you can figure it out, we can use it against him. But I need you to try. I can’t fix this.” He brushed his thumb under Stan’s good eye, fingers curling over the ear near the hair line.

“I can’t, Poindexter. All outta magic. Can’t even make my eyes be the right color anymore.” His shoulders shook with a dry laugh. “Or, er, ‘eye’ anyway.”

Stanford squeezed Stan’s hand tighter, the blood squelching between their fingers. Stan’s skin looked pale against the contract of the drying blood. His lips were tinged with blue, and his breathing rapid and shallow, rank breath puffing across Stanford’s face. He was going into shock, if he hadn’t already. Stanford’s hand slipped down to press into the pulse point at Stan’s neck.

Ba-bum

Ba-bum

b-

Rapid. And weak. Stan’s remaining pupil was contracted even in the dim light. If the blood loss didn’t kill him, the shock would. And at their age, it was almost assured. _Why would Bill do this? What does it accomplish? He’s only limiting his own functions!_  

He shook his head free of the fury creeping to the forefront. He needed Stan to remember how to heal this. He could be angry with Bill later. Right now, Stan was in control. Stan was the one that needed help, Stan was-  

“I did this.” Stan’s words brought his whirlwind of a mind to a screeching halt. _What?_  

“I wanted this. I _needed_ this! One small thing I can do to feel normal! One thing to make you love me again!” He felt the bottom drop out of his chest. _What?_

“Nothing I do anymore is enough! I thought I could do it. Be what you wanted! I _want_ to want to be who you want! But I just _can’t!”_ Stan was crying now. Fat tears pooling at the edge of his lid and spilling down his cheek to mix with the rest of the mess he was covered in. His mouth hung open after every word, and Stanford only now noticed that Stan was missing his teeth. The yellowed dentures somewhere in this mess, not that any of it mattered. Nothing mattered right now except the absolute absurd things that Stan was telling him. Nothing made sense. This was Stan. It had to be. But why would Stan do this to himself? Was it because of what happened? _No, God, Stan, Bill did that. Not you. You wouldn’t!_

“Stan, what are you saying?” His mouth was suddenly far too dry.

“I don’t know what to do anymore! I’m not Stan, I never was, but damnit, I _WANT_ to be!” Stan’s free hand came up to cover the one on his cheek. He was caught now, both hands trapped by Stan’s. He tried to swallow. Instead his throat clenched and locked shut. He couldn’t breathe. Stan brushed his lips against his palm, whispering into the skin “But, I’m just not! I’m not Stan. I can’t be what you want. I don’t _know_ what you want!”

“Stanley….” _He_ didn’t know what he wanted. He thought he did. He knew what he wanted to want.

“NO! Don’t you get it! I’m not Stan. I never _was!”_ He jerked back at Stan’s screech, but he was held firm. There was no running from this. “You weren’t supposed to be a twin. I spent sixty years thinking I was something I wasn’t. I spent sixty years thinking I was human, thinking I was worth something. I don’t want to be this! I don’t want to be Bill! But I can’t keep pretending I’m not! I can’t, I just can’t anymore!”

Stan heaved faltering breaths as he fought his body’s automatic fight or flight response. Stan wasn’t getting enough air, he was choking on his own panicking, so his body closed off his windpipe. No, wait, that wasn’t…

Stan had lifted both of Stanford’s hands to his throat, twelve fingers wrapped loosely around the pale neck, blood smearing beneath his palms. Stan urged him to squeeze, using his own hands to press Stanford’s into his throat.

“I’m not Bill, I’m not Stan. I’m no one. I can’t be one or the other, and I’m a danger to you being both.” Stan licked at his blue lips. Breath shallow and far from bridging the space between them. He was dying. The shock was killing him.

“I know part of you wants this.” He pressed Stanford’s hands harder into his neck, his voice coming out strained. “I do to. I think it would be ok, if it was you.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a pathetic semblance of a grin. Stanford’s heart stopped. “Please…”

-

-

-

-

-

In one smooth motion, Stanford slid his hands over Stan shoulders and wrapped his arms around his twin. Nails diffing into the ruined cloth and leaving little scratches on the skin underneath. He pressed his lips to Stan’s shoulder, eyes clenched tight enough to hurt. Stan’s skin smelled like sweat and vomit mixed with death, but it didn’t faze him.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was okay. Everything was wrong all at once and he was not strong enough to deal with it.

He felt Stan’s arms hesitantly wrap around his lower back and pull him closer. When everything else was going wrong. This…this was okay. This was right.   


	21. Something, Somewhere, Might Go Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins struggle with the fallout of Christmas. Ford reaches out to Mabel. Stan and Ford come to blows...and finally start to accept that this is thier new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short version, my part time job was a full-time job in disguise. Complications came up and mistakes were made, and I lost my job. Better news, I have more time to finish this.

They sat there for what seemed like hours. Kneeling on the metal floor, kneeling in bodily viscera. They stayed there so long, Stanford lost the feeling in his legs; blood flow restricted with the tension of his muscles. They stayed there so long Stan’s breathing had evened out, and he was no longer in danger of succumbing to shock.

Things became muted after a while; smells, sounds, pins and needles from his numbing feet. Stan had practically melted into him, letting his weight be braced by Stanford’s stronger frame. They shared no words. No words were needed. The panic had dissipated, hearts now in rhythm, calm and slow.

Stanford felt his muscle spasm. He shifted to ease the pressure and felt the dried blood tug painfully at his leg hair. Stan reacted faster than one who had just survived shock should. He dropped his hands to Stanford’s hips and drew him in, stretching out his own legs in the process. Stanford fell against Stan’s chest with little protest, hips supported by muscular thighs. He felt Stan’s arms wrap around his shoulders, vice-like and unyielding. But, he was ~~hap~~ no. No, he was far from _happy_ , but this was fine. This was okay. It was better than they had been, if only marginally. He knew his hair was coated in blood by now – as was much of him – but he hardly spared a thought as he felt Stan’s chapped and split lips press gently to his brow. He closed his eyes, and sighed.

He felt a thumb trail over his arm, drawing small circles with a hint of cold radiating from the point of contact. Even now, one eye gone, losing blood and without any real magic, here was Stan trying to comfort _him._ Whether it was from magic or Stanford’s own mind repressing it, the memories of the past two hours lost their sharp edge. The knowledge was still there, but the emotions, the fear, the anger, were dimming, if only just. Stan was trying to take away the hurt he’d caused. Because….

It _had_ been Stan, hadn’t it?

I could just be Bill, still twisting his mind and emotions to gain whatever upper-hand he thought he would get, but, no, this was Stan. Bill had never done this. Apologized, yes (though rarely), soothed Ford when he wound himself tighter then a Tesla coil, yes, but not this. Not to take away the emotions without dimming the facts of the memory. If Bill wanted him to forget that it had happened, then Bill would take the whole thing, rip it out of Stanford’s mind or break it into fragments and hide small pieces in mundane memories so that Stanford would experience dread and terror over something as ordinary as brushing his teeth, but with no knowledge of why he was panicking.

Or maybe that’s just what he expected Bill to do. He was…Stan was…. _they_ were defying his expectations. Had been for weeks, months. He was drifting with no foresight, no expectations, no experience to tell him what was going to happen next.

It was almost liberating.

The ship rocked gently; waves crashing against the sides as rougher weather blew in from Central America. His fingers – at some point – had hooked into the now red fabric of Stan’s shirt, palm resting over the still beating heart. He had done it without thinking, and when he did realize it, he left it there, running the pads of his fingertips over the worn threads and feeling the warm skin beneath. Stan was alive. Stan was still there.

His hand crept up to Stan’s neck, pressing into the soft skin and feeling for the pulse point. Weak still, yes, but stronger than before. Strong enough to survive. Stanford tilted his head back, just enough to look into Stan’s face, just enough. Stan kept his head down. Hiding half of his face, jaw held tight. Stanford cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the thankfully unmarred skin and rough stubble. He avoided the eye.

It was impulse. If he’d thought about it later, Stanford wouldn’t be able to explain where it had come from, or what possessed him to do it. Did he still see Bill in Stan’s ~~eyes~~ eye, or was it something he’d rather not pick apart right now?

He leaned up, just a few inches, and pressed his lips to Stan’s jaw. The sensitive skin of his lips being scratched raw by the unshaven stubble. Stan tasted like salt and blood……and bitter like quinine. He felt Stan stiffen, eye dilated and watching him closely. He kept his lips there, breathing roughly against the skin and occasionally swiping his tongue over his lips to savor the taste. He didn’t even know he was doing it. It was the same. Stan tasted the same. It was messing with his head.

Ford pulled away when he heard an aborted noise escape Stan’s throat. A pitiful and needy sound filled with hope. He sighed, breath ghosting over Stan’s skin.

“I thought I lost you once. Don’t make me go through that again. I just got you back.”

He felt iron bars crush him to Stan’s form. Stan exhaled against his scalp, muttering something he couldn’t quite hear through trembling lips.

They stayed like that until the blood covering them grew cold and dried. They stayed like that, until Stanford had swallowed down all the fear and guilt bubbling up from his core. They stayed like that until Stan’s lips stopped trembling and instead left soft trails along Stanford’s scalp.              

They stayed like that until Stanford heard his alarm ring from the open bulkhead. It was dawn.

They stayed there so long, that when Stanford withdrew, he felt cold, and empty.

*~*

He felt light. The world was fuzzy around the edges; not visibly, not like he was going to black out, but it was like the world had a slight plush feel to it. Like he was doped up. Maybe he was, Ford had held him after all.

Ford had kissed him. 

Or it might have been from the rampant blood loss, who knew? His aching knees and tingling feet told him it had been at least a few hours curled up on the floor.  

Ford had gone to get the first aid kit, some bandages and disinfectant. Stan was sure it wasn’t gonna do much good, but…well…Ford was touching him, wasn’t afraid of him. He could sit still for that.

When Ford retuned, he brought a tray willed with bandages, towels, disinfectant and a tiny needle and thread.

“Stiches ain’t gonna do shit, Sixer.”

Ford ignored him while setting down the tray and soaking a rag with disinfectant. He held Stan’s chin with one hand and carefully wiped away the mess on his face. Periodically, he would take the towel away, soak it in a second bowl of some disinfectant solution before dropping it in a plastic sack. Clean. Clinical. As he inched closer to the eye, Ford started patting the skin, hard a first, then gentle, barely touching, being as careful as he could not to rip the delicate skin.

Stan just watched him. Watched Ford’s brow furrow in concentration, eyes twitch with emotion brewing just below the surface. Stan wanted to reach out, to tap into his mind and try to ease the turmoil he was feeling. He had tried to take away the pain of…of what he’d done. He wanted Ford to forget it entirely, but, his brother wouldn’t trust him if he did that. How could you trust someone that made you forget their misdeeds? Instead, he dimmed the emotions, or tried to. But, they were Ford’s memories, he didn’t have the right.

Nor really the ability at the moment. His magic had all but been snuffed out. He was hardly healing as it is. He would have died, most likely. Probably. Had Ford left him be. His magic wouldn’t have been able to heal him fast enough to combat the shock.

His brother had saved him.

Stanford had saved him.

And he didn’t deserve it.  

“You shouldn’t have to do this.” Ford didn’t respond. Simply cleaned the last of the residual blood from his eye, before cleaning the towel and disinfecting the needle and thread.

He was still bleeding, sluggish now, small beads welling up to run down his face still. Ford grabbed a clean towel, padded away the new blood, before slowly inserting the needle into the tender skin. He could hardly feel it.

“Ford, stop. Don’t waste your time.”

Ford just gripped his chin harder, nail digging in and leaving a crescent impression. The needle met no resistance as Ford made tiny crisscross stitches to hold the skin together.

“You’ll get sepsis.” Ford’s words were clipped, sharp and stung worse than the needle. Stan tried to push his hand away; instead, Ford dug in his nails and held fast.

“It’s doesn’t matter. Let it.” Ford jerked Stan’s chin to the right, padding at his injured eye and wiping away the blood. He said nothing as he continued to make tiny stitches to hold the eyelid together.

“You don’t need to do this. I’ll…I’ll clean up. Jus’ let me pass out for a’while. Lock the door if you need ta.” He felt his words start to slur together. Didn’t help any that his teeth were still in a pile of congealing sick somewhere.

“You are in no condition to do much of anything.” The words were softer now, less forced. Stan still flinched. The thread jerked from Ford’s hand and the needle dangled down his face. Ford’s hands hovered in the air, not quite touching.     

“But, what I did to you…what I wanted to…”

“Stop!” Stan went still. Ford’s face stony, eyes dark. He was breathing heavily. Like it was forced, like he had to think about it. He settled his hands on Stan’s shoulders, gripping with the same force as before. He took a breath and met Stan’s gaze.

“I’m not going to sit here and lie and say it’s fine. It’s not. It will never be fine.” Stan felt his stomach lurch again. No, it would never be okay. He couldn’t keep it up; he averted his eye. Ford shook him, the needle swinging freely and tugging at the thread still attached to the skin of his eyelid.

“Look at me!” Stan did, slowly. For the first time in what seemed like ever, he couldn’t read Ford’s face.

“And I don’t know how long it will be until I can trust you again.” Stan bit back a whimper. He blinked back tears.

“But you are too important to me for me to sit back and let you die.” At some point, Ford had to have settled his hands on his face. At some point, Stan started crying again, because Ford was wiping away the tears from his eye. And at some point, his heart stopped beating, because Ford had leaned forwards and pressed his lips to his eye, collecting the salty drops until there were all gone.

He chuckled dryly, bringing his own hands up to cup Ford’s gently. 

“Who’re you talking to?” Because he had to know. He had to know if Ford meant him, or the him he used to be. Did Ford mean Stan, or Bill? He felt tear damp lips drag across his cheek. A word whispered over his lips.

“You.”

*~*

He'd put Stan, Bill…them, to bed after he’d finished stitching the gashes closed. It was still a mangled mess, and would likely never heal even with magic, but it was clean and covered and it was the best he could do right now. He’d taken…their…shirt and boxers, the towels he’d used to clean everything and thrown it all overboard. He’d cleaned up as much of the mess in the engine room as he could; mopping up the blood and sick, sweeping up the glass and collecting the chemicals in a tray to be neutralized before being disposed of.

It was all automatic, body moving without thinking, hardly any thought in his head other than apparent facts. He was numb, sort of. Maybe he would break later. When he had time, when ~~St~~ They were no longer in critical condition. He wasn’t sure how long he’d worked. Minutes, hours. The sun was still low in the sky when he finished. 

He recovered Stan’s dentures, washing them in salt water, then soaking them in a vinegar solution before placing them in a glass by the sink. It was early morning, a bit passed dawn. Maybe eight or so. He wanted to call the kids. Make sure they were okay. He wasn’t sure how much of his nightmare they had seen, if at all. He had to make them understand what was happening. Let them know if their uncle’s condition.

But it was five in the morning in California. It was too early to call. The kids were still asleep. Should still be asleep. And there was nothing else to do but check on Stan. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not yet.

He supposed it would waste a few minutes to call them. Even if they didn’t pick up, he could still use it as an excuse to avoid the bedroom.

He left the glass with Stan’s dentures on the counter and booted up the little tablet they used for video calls. Dipper and Mabel’s icon was a picture of the two of them, their faces pressed together, side by side, grinning at the camera. He taps the icon and waits.

They won’t pick up.

So, he is jarred when the screen clears, and he sees Mabel huddle in close to the camera. She holds a finger to her lips and then the camera drops. He sees a blur of undeterminable images in the dark; Mabel’s purple nightgown, two different patterns of carpet, her feet, and a door. The rest is too dark to see.

He hears a clinking before an overhead light turns on above her and she settles down on the floor, setting her tablet up on something low, likely a box.

“We gotta be quiet. It’s still early and I had to hide in the hall closet, otherwise I’ll wake Dipper.” She whispers; her voice is harsh and thick, and her eyes have more bags than his own. It’s likely she hadn’t slept much. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Are…you…” It was a stupid question. Of course, she wasn’t okay. She hadn’t got any sleep. She had likely suffered phycological trauma from all of this. God. What could he say. He really needed to be there with her. But he couldn’t. He just had to hope talking would help.

“How are you handling…all of this? I know that this…has been confusing and trying for all of us.” He still had to ask, even if he didn’t like the answer.

Mabel sat quiet for a few moments, fingers twisting in her nightgown. She wanted to say something, it was just a matter of coaxing her to speak her mind. No judgement. He was in no position to judge.

“I just…I don’t really know what to think about what happened.”

It was understandable. She had an admirable gift for comprehension (Mason had called it ‘just rolling with things’), but this was not something just easily accepted.

“I…I wasn’t able to sleep, after…after Grunkle Stan made us leave the beach? It wasn’t just a dream, right? I really happened? Right?”  

He groaned and rubbed at his face. Where to start?

“Yes, we shared a mindscape, you, Dipper and I were mindlinked with….er…Bill.” He was reluctant to continue.

“Did…Grunkle Stan…did he…turn into Bill? In the dream, I mean.”

Stanford felt his heart stutter. “Yes. He…he did.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up. I mean…I talked to Dipper about it. How everyone deserves a second chance, but that…maybe Bill doesn’t deserve another chance. But then what does that say about me? If I can’t be merciful, then am I a bad person? But then, Bill did so many bad things. But Grunkle Stan did so many good things, doesn’t that even out? Grunkle Stan beat Bill to make up for all the bad things he’s done, bit does that mean I have to forgive him? I don’t think I can forgive someone who tried to kill my brother. He told Soos he was stupid. He called Grenda a monster. He killed my dream boys!”

She was becoming frantic, and making little sense.

“Mabel. Mabel, honey, slow down. Take a deep breath.”

She took several quick breaths before calming down a bit. 

“Sorry, Grunkle Ford, I…may have had a bit too much Smile Dip. My hands won’t stop shaking.”

 _Smile Dip?_ He thought he remembered the kids talking about the hallucinogenic expired sugar candy that they found in the haunted convenience store, but Mabel had complained about feeling sick for days afterwards – not unlike severe withdrawal symptoms.

“Promise you won’t tell Dipper! I, kinda told him I’d get rid of it. But…I need it sometimes. It helps when I get sad. And…this situation with Grunkle Stan is…well, it’s hard to be happy sometimes.”

Stanford sighed. He couldn’t fault her for her choice of coping mechanism. But, all the same, it was dangerous. She could really get hurt if she continued to abuse it.

“Mabel…I…maybe you should try to get some sleep. We can talk more after you get some rest.”

“But you just called. I won’t be able to sleep until I know what’s going on. You guys haven’t called in days!”

Stanford felt a stab of guilt shoot through his chest. He didn’t want to worry her, but the news he had was only going to make her more concerned.

He must have sat quiet for too long, because Mabel pressed him again for information. 

“Grunkle Ford, are you okay? You, I guess, you were pretty upset with Grunkle Stan, right? Or Bill…I’m not sure what to call him now. ‘Ban’, or maybe ‘Still’? No, that sounds stupid.”

The laughter that spilled from him was bordering on unhinged if not full on insane. This was all too much. For him to handle. He was on the verse of a nervous breakdown and here he was thinking he was going to help his traumatized niece and she was busy coming up with a new name for whatever his brother had become like it was an everyday occurrence. The news he had was going to destroy the beautiful and hopeful smile she wore. But she deserved to know.

He held up a hand to prevent her from speaking. She closed her mouth with a snap.   

Stan...Stan lost an eye.”

“WHAT?!”

“I’m not sure what happened, exactly, but he woke up sometime after he sent you two back and barricaded himself in the engine room. By the time I got to him, he had broken most of my scientific instruments, mangled his hands and covered himself in chemical burns, and managed to incapacitate his left eye.” Cold, clinical. No emotions. He had to be the level-headed adult here. It was a delicate façade. 

“Grunkle Ford…is he okay? Why would he do that? Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” She sounded frantic; her whispers harsh and full of force. But he couldn’t tell her. She was just a kid, she wasn’t going to understand. Hell, even if she was an adult, she wasn’t going to understand. There wasn’t anything about this _to_ understand. He wasn't even sure how he felt about what Bill and Stan had almost done. His mind was still tossing back and forth about whether it was something he wanted. And with whom?

The facts remained: he loved his brother dearly, and desperately wanted their lives to return to where they had been these last few months; Stan and Bill shared a body; and he was hopelessly in love with a psychopathic daemon who tortured and manipulated him for years and who almost caused the end of the world. Still missed Bill’s company, still craved his touch, and yet hated everything he’d done.

“Grunkle Ford?” And what was worse is that he didn’t know how to feel about Stan anymore. He’d wanted it to be Stan, wanted Stan to be the one above him, but he wasn’t sure why. Was it because he was just so desperate to have his brother back, that knowing it was Stan made enduring what might have happened easier, or that…he actually wanted Stan? Why was it like this? What did it have to be like this? Why Bill? Why Stan?!

Why couldn’t he just get over this? He hated Bill. Bill had used him. So why did he miss him? Why was he so conflicted? Why did he enjoy hurting Bill with his experiments? Why was it that imagining Bill and their past encounters brought him to the brink and last night was one of the most terrifying experiences he’d ever been through? Why couldn’t he just forget?! 

“How do you move on from someone you used to love?” He frowned, confused as to where the question had come from, why he had said it aloud. And there was no doubt that Mabel had heard it. _Damn it_.

“Grunkle Ford?” She cocked her head to the side, as if she was trying to parse out what his expression said. As if she was trying to read him. Funny, she probably could figure him out better than he could. Well, he had already posed a question, and hadn’t he promised them no more secrets? This might be his biggest yet. He wasn’t sure if he was ready.

“How do you get over feeling like they are the most important person in your life? How do you deal with still having feelings for them, even though you know they are probably the worst person for you?” He hadn’t made it any clearer, and he knew she didn’t have an answer, but maybe he needed this. Maybe he needed to finally come clean and tell the kids why he was such a train wreck.

“Are we talking about Bill?” Stanford startled, snapping his gaze back up to the screen where a confused and concerned Mabel peered back at him. How did she know he was talking about Bill? Was he that obvious? Had he said something already?

No, of course not. Who else would it be? Who else was there to talk about? Well, Stan, but that was something he was _really_ not ready to tackle just yet. He chuckled sadly to himself and averted his eyes, unable to handle Mabel’s expression anymore.   

“Yeah…” God, it felt like a weight on his chest just admitting it. He didn’t use to feel this much shame. But shame was good. Shame was his morality telling him he was doing something wrong. And loving Bill, that was very wrong.

“Do you love him?” He felt like crying. It wasn’t a matter of whether he did or didn’t, it was a matter of whether he should. Funny, before Bill betrayed him, it was never about morals, it was always about facts, and truth, and efficiency. Meeting Bill made him realize the important things, at the very least.

“I don’t want to.” There was nothing to do but be honest. Even if she judged him for it. 

“That’s not what I asked.” Were things so simple for her? Wasn’t it obvious? 

“Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper. He didn’t want to admit it. Beyond everything, it was his greatest shame. Beyond turning his brother away, beyond causing Fiddleford to turn to erasing his mind to cope. Beyond putting the world in danger. He loved Bill, and despite all the hurt he’d caused, he still did. 

“Why?” Her question was blunt, straightforward, clear. And yet, it was the hardest question he’d ever been asked. He choked out a wet laugh that was more a sob that anything. He felt the hot prick of tears coalesce behind his lids before slipping down his cheeks. His laughing dissolved into sobs. He braced his head in his hands, elbows pressed into the counter.

“I don’t know” He gasped out. His voice rose in pitch as he tried to drag an answer from his throat. His answer practically unintelligible. His eyes stung as the tears burst forth to rain like falls. He tried to muffle himself, covering his mouth his his hands, trying desperately to shove the grief that was pouring out of him back into the pit it came from. God, how weak was he? Breaking down in front of his great niece? How could he do this to her? How could he unload this on her? But, God, he needed to talk to someone, anyone about this. He’d kept it to himself for so long, decades. It was his last, darkest secret. Nothing he’d done in the multiverse, the hundreds of parts he’d stolen for his quantum destabilizer, the lives he’d taken when the bounty was placed on his head, compared to this. His greatest sin. And he didn’t even know why. He didn’t _know_ why he loved Bill.

Bill was a monster, the very definition of an abuser. He had killed, tortured, rewritten entire beings, entire civilizations. He’d _burned_ his original dimension because he learned of the concept of color and music! Bill was a psychopath, a sociopath, he was literally insane. And yet, Stanford still loved him. Still. Even knowing Bill tried to take over the world, take over his dimension. Bill had tried to kill his family. Had tried to kill Mabel, this sweet girl who didn’t deserve to be the one he was unloading onto. What scares him the most, is that even if Bill _had_ killed them, that Stanford would still love him. Even after all that, he couldn’t be sure that he would willingly walk away from Bill. He could hate what Bill had done, he could be afraid of the daemon, could despise what he’d done with the world. But he doesn’t know if he would have been able to destroy Bill on his own. Not that he didn’t have the means, but…he’d…GOD! He’d missed on purpose!

“What did you say?” FUCK! He’d said it out loud, hadn’t he? There was nothing for it now, was there?

“I did…god why? In the bell tower, I had Bill in my sights. I MADE the sights to be Bill shaped, and I had him in my sights. I had one shot. ONE! It took me years to get the schematics to make that one cartage! And another decade to get the parts! I never would have if it wasn't for Fiddleford! God. He even stole parts from his own facility, from an other me, to help me finish it! And even with everyone trapped, even with Mason standing behind me, in danger, I couldn’t do it! I hesitated! Why did I hesitate? Why couldn’t I just let him go?! Damn it! Stan wouldn’t be like this. He would have made the shot! Hell, he wouldn’t have made the deal with Bill in the first place. Stan wouldn’t be like this if I had just made that first shot! It’s my fault. It’s my fault Bill still exists. And I STILL can’t bring myself to hate him! And I want to. I WANT to hate him! I want to despise him…but I can’t.”

He was hyperventilating, the words running from his mouth like water. He couldn’t stop now. Months and years of holding it all back and now that that damn had broken, it was all coming out. All of it, raw, and ugly. “It should have been me. It was _supposed_ to be me. This damned metal plate. Why the hell did I think it was a good idea? Stan didn’t deserve this! It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault. God……what have I done?” He was getting lightheaded. His chest felt tight. He’d just noticed that his ears were starting to ring. He wanted to scream! This was all bullshit!       

“Grunkle Ford…it…it’s gonna be ok. Really! You just need to take some deep, SLOW, breaths. Ok? Common, Breathe with me. IN,” Mabel made a show of over emphasizing her movements and took in a huge breath through her nose and held it there with her cheeks puffed out. He held it for a few second, and a few seconds more, and a few more until her face started to turn red from the effort and she let it all out in one bellow of an exhale that had her coughing up some glitter. “…and out, *cough, cough*…Oh, ow..”

Stanford couldn’t help but laugh at her antics. His own shallow breathing leveling out as he regulated his inhales, two second, hold for a half second, and exhale for two seconds. He was calming down. His heart beat at a slightly less rapid pace.   

“What made you fall in love with Bill in the first place?”

“He...he wasn’t like any other person I’d ever met. Well, he’s not really a ‘person’ exactly. He was, is, unique. He’s charming, he’s funny, he has the same twisted sense of humor that I do...well, sort of. He loves puns, is fascinated by human behaviors and biology. He is infinitely curious about everything. Nothing is mundane to him, well, beyond fifth dimensional calculus.”

Mabel sat transfixed on the screen, completely engrossed in Stanford’s tale. It was strange actually talking about Bill so positively; before he had wanted to keep Bill a secret, keep Bill to himself, and after, well, the only reason he continued on living was to stop him. It was almost a relief to talk about this, even to his sweet little niece.       

“He reminded me of Stan, but, he was different. Bill challenged me. He made me think, think in ways I had never considered before. He challenged my preconceived notions about the world and the way things are supposed to be. He took an interest in not only my research, but in me. He told me we would change the world. That we would make it better. That I was special. He treated me like I was special, and not because of my deformity. He spent time with me, seemingly went out of his way to enter my mindscape. We used to talk for hours, about everything, about…nothing.”

Stanford grinned softly at the memory of floating in the mindscape for hours talking with his muse. How they would share inside jokes, talk about the anomalies that he had found, how they manifested in other dimensions. He felt something flutter in his chest, something soft, and warm, and terribly damning. It was hard to do this, because he knew that all of it was a lie, all of it was fake, just a ruse meant to fool him into building that god forsaken portal. But he couldn’t help but feel himself be overcome with love for the creature that ruined his life.

Mabel sat at attention, her eyes wide and her face drawing ever closer to her screen.

“He would remind me to eat, to bath and to clean my house on occasion. He would…” Stanford let out a chuckle overflowing with nostalgia, “he would tell me to go outside sometimes, and I would see some elusive anomaly, or meteor shower, or just feel the sun on my skin and I would be calm, I would feel happy. Bill was actually the one that told me I should call Mom. I had lost track of how often I called home. I spoke to my father briefly and...he told me he regretted what he’d done to Stan. He told me that if ever I felt even the slightest twinge to reach out to Stan, that I should. For my own sake, if for nothing else. Bill was also the one that listen to me rant for several hours after that call. He told me I should do what I felt I needed to. Whatever that might be.”

Stanford sighed, head resting in his hands, feeling heavier as the happiness and love was swiftly choked by grief and betrayal.

“I thought he cared about me. I thought we were going to change the world. I thought...I thought he loved me. I was sure of it. More sure than I was in anything else. We were...intimate,” he cringed a bit, admitting such things to Mabel - she was only thirteen after all - but she had asked, and she showed no signs of being disgusted with him, “...more than once. He didn’t understand human, er…’needs’, but we were able to find something that worked for us.” He sighed again. Nothing about this was, strictly speaking, ‘kosher’, but, God, he needed to talk to someone about this. And Mabel’s pupils did appear to have changed into the shape of the hallmark heart (he made a mental note to do research on the potential side effects of teen romantic obsessions).        

He cleared his throat and she seemed to come back from whatever fantasy romance land she had formed in her own head. She shook her head, brown hair falling loose from her headband and a few strands catching on her nose and eyelashes.

“It sounds like you really love him. I’m a firm believer that everyone is worthy of love and deserves a second chance,” Mabel took a breath, clearly she had thought about this extensively, “but, Bill is a unique case. Bill had a lot of chances to do better and he didn’t. I want to give him a second chance, I know I should, but it’s not easy. And just because I feel that way, doesn’t mean you should. Bill hurt you. He hurt you and you still love him.” Stanford nodded, feeling his heart twist. 

“Well, normally I would suggest you tell him how you feel. But, this is Bill we’re talking about. Odds are, he already knows, and he still hurt you. And…well,” She paused, deflating a little as she twisted the thoughts in her head to make the impact of her words carry less of a sting.

“I don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to move on. Bill isn’t the right person for you. I don’t know for sure if Bill loves you or not. But, don’t forget that Grunkle Stan does love you.”

It’s not as if he didn’t know. But as long as Stan was trapped in his own head with Bill, it didn’t matter. Besides, it wasn’t...it wasn’t that same. Stan should be enough. Stan used to be enough. Stan used to be all he ever needed in life. Why wasn’t he enough now?

“And I know it’s really confusing right now, with Stan being able to do magic and his shifty-eye thing, but, He’s still Stan. He still loves you. He just...he might be struggling with his identity right now. He would never hurt you.”

Stanford suppressed a shudder. He still was reeling over last night. Best not to mention that right now. But something Mabel had said caught his attention.

“Wait, what do you mean by ‘struggling with his identity’?” He knew that the twins were doing research and trying to figure out how Bill could have returned.       

“You say it’s Bill pretending to be Stan. Dipper says it’s like Bill and Stan’s minds sort of got stuck together making Bitan or Stil,” He rolled his eyes at her continued attempts to merge their names, “or…well, you get what I’m trying to say. It isn’t Bill or Stan, but both. And I think…um, I…”

“Mable?”

“You probably aren’t gonna like it. Besides, it is kind of a dumb idea.”

“Mabel, I have learned that there are no dumb ideas. You showed me that. You retrieved the unicorn hair when I was sure it was impossible.” He wasn’t about to forget how proud of her he was when she returned triumphant with the unicorn hair. Something he was never able to do, even with all his supposed superior knowledge.

“I think that Stan might have always been Bill.”

He sat with his mouth agape. Hadn’t Stan said something similar? He had dismissed it as being in a panicked delirium. “What…what do you mean?”                                           

“I was reading up on reincarnation and how to identify people. Stan seems to tick off a lot of boxes. Hold on!” She disappears for a few moments. He hears the door open and her walk down the hall and open another door. He returns with a backpack and sits back down on the carpet. She rustles some papers around and pulls up a checklist and a large book with a chakra pattern on the cover.

“Ok, here we go. According to this book, people who are reincarnated are likely to exhibit out of place or unlikely personality traits that can’t be explained.” She glances at the screen to see if her uncle is listening. When she is satisfied with his nod, she continues, “Such characteristics include,” she shifts to her checklist, “Strong intuition, unexplained phobias, inability to be fooled or ability to see through a con (definingly Grunkle Stan), rebellious nature, uncontrollable habits, feelings of no belonging anywhere, strange memories or reoccurring nightmares.” She pauses and looks back at Stanford who had been unintentionally nodding along as she listed nearly everything about Stanley that he’d never been able to place. “Now, I can’t say for certain about some of these, because I don’t know much about Grunkle Stan when he was young, but you can confirm or deny the ones I’m not sure about.”

Stanford could attribute every characteristic to Stan, some with numerous instances.

Stanley had (and had been cured of thanks to Mabel) a fear of heights, one that didn’t seem to have any particular reason. Stan had never fallen from any height, never been at the top of a cliff and had the dizzying feeling of looking down into the abyss. If he can remember, Stan hadn’t even liked being picked up and carried when they were young. Ma had liked to tell the story of how Stan had cried and cried whenever she tried to pick him up and would only quiet down when she picked of Stanford too. Stan had also been his polar opposite; now it’s not unusual for siblings, even twins to be drastically different, but Stan’s peculiar habit for trouble had been worrisome for their parents. Stan was a pathological liar; Stanford always assumed that Stan picked it up from Mom, but, well, if Stan had picked it up, why hadn’t he?

He could see through a con a mile away. Stanford, in his youth, was very trusting of people, and had paid the price. But with Stan at his side, they were never fooled. Street magicians, bullies, fortune-tellers, carnival games, it didn’t matter. If there was a hint of dishonesty, Stan could sniff it out. 

Stan was the forgotten twin. Pa had, in often abusive and neglectful ways, made it very clear which of the two brothers he preferred. When they got old enough, Ma had told them about not expecting twins. About how they had decided on the name ‘Stanley’ and when both boys were born, Pa had named them both Stan, with only Ma’s last-minute editing on the birth certificates to make any distinction.

Stan, had always felt out of place. Hell, they both had. Stan was reckless, took shortcuts, impulsive…in all honesty, not completely unlike Bill.

It bothered him how similar they were now that he’d stopped to think about it. He wasn’t about to examine why it made him uncomfortable, but there was no denying that they were more similar than not. Nothing was definitive, nothing was concrete…but…a LOT of it fit. If it was just a few things, maybe he could have dismissed it, but Stan checked nearly every box, even before Weirdmageddon. It was…eerie.

“Stan was the only one who called me Sixer. I always thought it was his way of acknowledging my…,” Stanford paused to stare at his hands; twelve fingers spread, before clenching them into fists, “…abnormality…without making me feel terrible about it. I thought Bill had simply dug through my memories and called me that to earn my trust.”

Mabel had closed her book and tucked everything back in her bag. She was watching him closely, gauging his reaction.

“It’s not hard to imagine. And that’s what’s scary about it.”

If it was true, then…then Bill had been a part of his life since the beginning. If it was true, then his brother, his first friend was simulated. He was never real. Stanley Pines, was just a mask the Bill wore, maybe without his knowledge, but still a façade. Stanley Pines never truly existed on his own.

It would explain so much…but the implications.  

“Is there any way to find out for sure?” She had begun to play with her hair, combing through the strands with her fingers.

“No. There really isn’t.” Not unless he could speak to the Guardian of All Mists. Jheselbraum had spoken of it, but he was drunk on cosmic sand at the time.

“So, it’s just something you have to believe, or not believe.” Faith. Without evidence. It was something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.  

“Yeah.”

“Well, do you?” He gripped the edge of the table. She seemed to need some kind of confirmation. He wasn’t sure he could give her one. He wanted to. He wanted to ease her fears, but this was almost beyond him.

“I……don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a while each lost in their own heads, trying to figure out where they stood…whether they could love unconditionally…or not.

The sound of a door opening and running water woke them up from their trance.

Stanford watched Mabel hide her backpack under some spare blankets and reach for the tablet.

“Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll…let you decide if you wanna tell Dipper what you told me. I think you should tell him, but I’ll keep your secret if you need me to. As, as long as you keep mine.”

He gave her a watery smile. “I…need some time, but I’ll tell him. And so should you.” He pouted at him but relented with a nod. 

“Grunkle Ford?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

He sat in the dim light in the galley for a while after she disconnected. Laughter bubbled up from his chest that quickly dissolved into sobs.

*~*

It had been two hours since his call to Mabel, and he had done little but sit and think. His mug of tea sat untouched until it grew cold and he poured himself another.

Mabel’s suggestion had brought so much to mind. So many implications, so many things he’d rather not deal with. His brother might not be real. May never have been. All his childhood memories of playing on the beach, of working on the Stan O War, of just… _being_ with someone he loved and trusted unconditionally. All of it, was fake. All of it was just a ruse by some divine intervention.

What was worse, was that Bill likely had no knowledge that he was anyone but Stan Pines. So, he’d spent the last sixty years believing he was human, knowing he was human only to…

 _STOP! Just…stop. Nothing is for sure. You have no evidence. Just…go check on his condition and then you can sit on deck and think about anything else._   

He retrieved Stan’s dentures, pouring out the stale water and filling it with fresh before placing the glass on the shared nightstand. He hesitated, sitting on the edge of his bed across from the prone figure of his brother. Half of Stan’s face was wrapped in bandage and gauze. The sheet he’d drawn over Stan giving him some semblance of modesty. He didn’t have the energy to try and dress Stan after stripping away the foul clothing.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat and watched Stan. He felt his eyes grow heavy.

-

-

-

He awoke to someone carding their fingers through his hair.  Decades of finely honed instincts kicked in before he could think, and he swung at the person. His fist was caught in a loose, but strong grip, and his second swing was easily deflected.

“Hey, easy IQ. It’s just me. Though I can understand being confused. Not sure where I picked up the body.”

 _IQ?_ Something wasn’t quite right. Stanford fought the ease at which he was falling back into panic. That was his mistake the last time. He needed to remain calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. He took a sharp breath through his nose, before letting it out.

Stan still had a hold of his hands.

“Ya with me Sixer? Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.” Stan let go of of his hands, but he kept contact, running his fingers over his forearm. Stanford suppressed a shiver. “Ya mind filling me in on what’s goin’ on? I think making the transfer to a human body scrambled my mind a little. Crammin’ that much knowledge into a tiny brain, some things probably got lost in translation.” Stan shot him a smirk.

Stanford frowned. Stan wasn’t making sense. Sure, severe trauma can cause temporary confusion and in severe cases, amnesia and disassociation, but Stan had seemed to cognizant before. It had only been a few hours. Could acute trauma induced delirium set in this quickly?

_It's not Stan._

“Hey…hey. Um…You still in there? Did I scare you into a coma? Can that happen? I don’t remember.” Stan tapped lightly on the lens of Stanford’s glasses. He didn’t respond.

This wasn’t Stan. There was only one person this could be. But… _No! No. No jumping to conclusions. Work with the facts, not conjecture. You know better._

 _Mabel could have gotten it wrong!_  

Stan had just had some major trauma. He’d just recovered is memories and trauma was one of the triggers that brought on amnesia episodes in Fiddleford. Stan was likely affected similarly. It was fine. This wasn’t…. Or was it? Stan’s eye was brown. Pupil still round. But, he wasn’t sounding like himself. He was sounding like….

“Bill?”

“Cha-ching! Though I know that one may have been tough. New face and all.” Stan, no _Bill_ lightly smacked his cheeks for emphasis, scratching idly at the bandages.

“Wait, what do you mean? What, you don’t reme-“ But Bill spoke over him.

“When did you get so old anyway?” Bill ran a finger down his face, knocking his glasses askew and tweaking his nose gently. Stanford wrapped his fingers around the wrist and pushed it away. Bill hardly noticed. He was being too friendly. This wasn’t the Bill he knew – or rather, it was the Bill he used to know, back before he found out Bill’s real plans.

“Not that I don’t like the look. Grey is a good look for you.” He resisted the urge to jerk back when Bill reached for his hair, ruffling the two-toned strands. Bill grinned; Stanford straightened his glasses and wrinkled his nose.

“Stop that. You know I’m farsighted. Go stand twenty feet away if you wanna take my glasses.”

“Yeah, but you always looked better without them. They magnify your eyes. You look like a perpetually discontented owl. And that nose could be a beak.” Bill tweaked his nose again, letting go when Stanford went to smack his hand away.

Bill cackled and flopped sideways on the bed, resting his head on his knuckles.

This was undeniably Bill.

Just…the old Bill. The playful Bill. The one…the one he dearly missed.  

“So, what’d I miss? Or, rather, what am I _missing_? I guess that it’s been a while since Gravity Falls. It’s strange though, I don’t feel like I’ve been apart from you very long. You change the world yet, or did you get side tracked with some female? Make some little Fordsies with someone else? You left me waiting at home, working on the calculations while you were out with some floosy! How could you?!” Bill threw his head back in mock distress, hand to his forehead. Such a drama queen. Stanford couldn’t help but laugh.

They had often joked about Bill being Stanford’s secret wife. Stanford had made many excuses to Fiddleford about his constant liaisons to the woods to speak with Bill in the mindscape without drawing attention. McGucket had thought that Stanford had a secret ‘lady friend’ he didn’t want Fiddleford to know about. Bill had adored being referred to as Ford’s secret ‘lady friend’.

“There he is. I wondered where my jovial little scientist went.” Bill smiled warmly up at him, tracing little triangles on the sheet.

“God, he was absolutely convinced I was running off to woo some woman in town. That or I was dating the Mothman.” They both devolved into laughter again. Stanford could clearly remember Fiddleford giving him ‘the talk’ about women and how he ‘really shouldn’t feel ashamed that yer wantin’ ta spend time with a gentle lady. Ya don’t have ta be married ta yer work to be a scientist. Lookit me, I got me a wonderful gal to be my wife and a darlin’ boy, and I’m still here workin’ with you.’

Stanford isn’t sure he ever told Fiddleford he was kinda right.

“And that ‘hamboning’. What’s the deal with that? Look, the kid’s bright, but even I can’t make sense of that hogwash. The banjo was nice.”

Stanford wiped a stray tear from his eye. God, he missed this. How long could it last?      

“Hey, know what we can do now?” Stanford opened his mouth to ask for some clarification but was met with warm and chapped lips molding against his own, the acrid taste of residual sick less pungent than he expected.

His brain felt fuzzy. Bill’s fingers cradled his face, played with the strands at his nape, drifted down his back.

He sighed into it, unconsciously leaning into Bill’s welcoming embrace. He felt Bill grab hold of his shirt collar and jerk him forward.

Bill nipped at his lip…or gummed. Wait. Stan. Wait! This was…   

Stanford pulled away, halting Bill by his shoulders when he tried to follow. His heart stuttered against his ribs. “Stan, listen to me. I know you’re in there.” Bill blinked at him, head cocked in confusion.  

“What? Bruiser? What about him?” There was no mistaking that this was Bill. The daemon had picked up the moniker for Stan early on. They had rarely spoken of him, and Bill never referred to him by name. Hearing it in Stan’s voice twisted something in his chest. 

“Oh, yer falling into that Freudian shit aren’t you? Wondered when you’d figure out what your little boxer fantasy meant.” Stanford’s gut twisted into knots. “Well, I’m willing to oblige.” Bill raised his hands to slick his hair back when he paused, staring bewildered at the weathered and scarred skin as he rolled the knuckles. “The hell?”

“Bill, this…you don’t remember what happened?”

“Like I said, infinite knowledge, tiny spaces. Some things had to go, ya’ know.” Bill was still staring at his hands, now noticing the rest of his aged body, and becoming even more baffled.

“What,” Stanford licked his lips, “what do you last remember?” What was he dealing with? How had Bill forgotten. Was Bill subjected to the same mental state his brother was? Could trauma induced delirium transfer over to Bill?

Bill chuckled nervously, scratching at his head before becoming aware that he was doing it. Instincts. Habits. Bill wasn't used to them.

“Ain’t that a loaded question? Aaahhhhh…I dunno. You were playing house in that bunker with Fiddlesticks. Somethin’ about a juvenile gestaltwandler…” Bill trailed off, gaze lingering on Stanford. He leaned forward, arms braced on either side of Stanford, hovering over him. “Did he fall through the portal? He freaked out didn’t he?” Bill’s words were whispered. Stanford nodded.

“How…how long has it been since then? You had way less damage. What happened to ya? Although I am a fan of the ink.” One of Bill’s arms came up to trail down his back again, tracing the image of himself forever ingrained in Stanford’s skin. Their lips were centimeters apart. 

“It’s been a little over thirty years.” Bill lurched back.

“What?! How the HELL did I lose thirty years? I know I can dissociate for a year or two, but damn! When did I become human? Recently? Or was it back then? What the hell am I missing?” 

Bill leaned back, sitting upright on the bed and standing up on shaky legs. Stanford watched him. His movements were familiar. He’d watched them for over a month as they sat, moored in the Bermuda Triangle. The movements were Stan. The wording was Stan, hell the fucking accent was his brother.

_It never was. He was never real._

But the memories weren’t. The memories were Bill. And it de-railed all logic in Stanford’s brain. He wanted this to make sense. Hell, he wanted to go back in time, back to Iceland before all this happened. 

“Wait, we were in Iceland? Why? What did I miss?!” Bill whipped around and stalked closer to him. He was still able to read Stanford’s mind. Or he was speaking out loud again? Hard to tell.

Bill was angry now. Stanford knew that tone. And his fight-or-flight response was acting up again. He flinched as Bill got closer. It made the daemon pause, wrinkling his nose and clearly irritated at Stanford’s reaction. Stanford had never been afraid of him before. Why now? What happened? 

Bill turned away and caught sight of the small mirror hanging on the back of the closed door, carefully eyeing his reflection as he turned his head this way and that. Gently tracing the bandages wrapped around his head.

“Oh…OH………oh.” He looked down at his body again, hands coming up to run through his chest hair. “Well, that explains why you were thinkin’ about bruiser.” He tweaked his nipples and thumped at his stomach. “Huh.” Bill flexed his fingers again, holding his hands up to the mirror and snapping. Nothing happened.

“I can’t even use my magic! What gives?! Sixer, start talkin’!” He spun back around and grabbed at Stanford’s shoulders. He fought down the urge to run.

“I don’t even know where to start. You…you took over. You broke the rift. You took over Gravity Falls.”

“Really? Already? And you’re not pissed at me? What the hell did I say to get you to be okay with that?” Bill slid his hands from Stanford’s shoulders, down his chest to rest on his thighs. In one less than graceful motion, Bill straddled his legs.

Stanford’s mind when blank with panic. _Not again!_

Fear again took over and he pulled away with every last shred of strength he had. He vaulted over the shared table and landed on the opposite bed, kneeling, ready to strike, to run to do anything if Bill so much as breathed wrong.

“Whoa, whoa…He WHAT!”

Stanford flinched. Bill could still read his mind.

“You sure that wasn’t something I did? Or, hell, made you think happened? ‘Cuz it sounds like Bruiser has finally lost his mind – not that it wasn’t coming. That or….wait, we’re still in your home dimension, right?”

Bill had shifted to sit on the bed, knees set wide apart. It was a power move. He very easily had the upper hand. Bill could very easily overpower him. His only hope was speed. He was more agile than Stan. Bill wouldn’t be able to catch him.

“Jesus. He really did. Fuck! Wish I coulda been there. Wasn’t I there? It seems weirdly familiar. Did I do that to you?” Bill’s face was open and honestly curious. This Bill didn’t know what happened. This Bill didn’t have the same memories of betrayal. _He was planning it from the beginning. Nothing you say now is going to change his mind. You were a puppet. Nothing more. He didn’t care about you. Even if you convinced yourself he did._

“What the hell are you on about, Sixer. Of course I care about ya. Always have. Where ever we go, we go together, from now until the end of time. Right?”

 _No. That wasn’t right. Bill was twisting his memories._ “No, you don’t.” Bill’s face contorted into a grimace.

“Alright Sixer, what happened? ‘Cuz’ your head is a whirl of emotions right now, and it’s making me queasy.” 

Sixer fingers clenched together, itching for a reason to strike.

He didn’t know what information he should tell Bill. Bill without crucial memories, without magic is the weakest he’d been. Stanford could change things. If Bill didn’t remember, then…could they…could it go back to how it used to be?

When he thought Bill loved him?

Why? Why was he upset? Why did it hurt? Why did it feel like he was closing the curtains all over again? This was Bill, and Bill had never cared. Bill’s only goal had been the completion of the portal.

All of the flattery, all of the plans for the future, all of the talk of making the world a better place, of reinventing what it meant to be different so that it was celebrated, all of it, all pretense. All just empty words to get him to open the portal between dimensions.

The jokes, the sex, the intimacy, just to lure him in and feed him lies. And he fell for it. He fell for Bill. Loved him. Still, hopelessly loves him.   

It was easier when they were both aware of Bill’s true intentions. Bill not knowing what had happened, Bill acting like they were partners, pretending to care, made his heart flutter in his chest, only for his mind to poor lava down on it, burning it to cinders.

Bill had hurt him. Had hurt his family. Had hurt Stan.

What would happen to Stan if things stayed like this?

“Ugh, IQ, common. Your emotional turmoil is making my head spin. And not the good kind of spin, either.” Bill cradled his head, trying to ease the wave of disequilibrium. Standing would not be a smart move right now.  

He had to assess the situation. Define the parameters and develop a plan of action. But how could he when he didn’t know who he was dealing with? Earlier, he’d been sure it was Stan. The mannerisms, the word choice, the avoidance, everything. Everything said Stan. Now…now everything said Bill. What about before Christmas? With the kids? Who was it then? He didn’t know. It could have been Bill acting, it could have been Stan being influenced by Bill. He wasn’t even sure if it was Bill now. He used to be. He used to know them both, completely. He used to know how to tell the difference!

He was wasting time second guessing. He had to choose. Bill or Stan? Bill? Or Stan? Bill…?

“Did I make you ride a Tilt-a-Whirl until I got dizzy and threw up?”

…or Stan?

Stanford’s mouth fell agape. Stan had done that. They had gone to the carnival at seven years old. Bill…would Bill know about that? Theoretically, yes, he would, but…

How could he be sure of anything when confronted with a daemon that could read his mind? Had read his mind?

“No.” Stanford swallowed. _Don’t let him trick you. Don’t let him make you doubt your own memories. They are all you have._  

“See, normally I’d believe you, but I’m seein’ it from my perspective. And when I take someone’s memories, I see it from theirs. But you’re sittin’ next ta me.” Bill squinted at Ford. “So, I’ll ask again, ‘Did riding that Tilt-a-Whirl make me so dizzy you held up my head while I puked my guts out?’”

 _Define the facts. Don’t confuse the truth._ “No. Stan rode it with me.” _You know that already._

“Do I? Lotta things are fuzzy.” He pitched the bridge of his nose and flopped back on the bed, staring at the panel ceiling. Stanford’s posture eased. _No imminent threat._ “I remember…I forced you to eat something. A few times. Took control of yer body and made you eat. Made you sleep. You were trying ta stay awake and keep me outta yer head. But then I get another memory of feeding you soup and reading outta some nerd book.”

Stanford felt himself fall loose. Posture drooping, shoulders slumped. His fists clenched in sheets. What the HELL was this?

“What do you remember about this past summer?” His lips trembled, but he had to know who this was. Who was this man that sat before him and dug up old memories from a past life?  

It’s commin’ back. Kinda.” Bill rubbed at his good eye, squinting at Stanford. “Bits and pieces. I remember a lot of blue light.”

No telling who it was then. He had to know more. What kind of blue? In what context? Were there any emotions attached to the memory? What was happening immediately before or after?

“Jeeze, slow down will ya?” Stanford flinched. Bill could still read his mind. “I just remember a lotta blue light. And…some screaming. I can’t really make it out.”

Bill sighed. “Look, I don’t have any magic. Least, not more than a spark of two. I can’t do nothin’ to ya. But yer the only one who knows what the hell happened, and my mind is mush right now. I got flashes, that’s it. None of it’s gonna make any sense until you help me remember.”

Bill, Stan…whoever this person was, was a broken man. And regardless of who it was, Stanford loved him. Whomever this man was, he needed help. But he wasn't sure if he could give it. Not yet. After everything had happened, he wasn’t ready for this.

“Please.”

It was the whispered plea that broke him.

“I discovered your plan to connect our dimensions. I shut down the portal. Stopped you. But our deal kept us bonded. You could infiltrate my mind any time I fell asleep. I barricaded myself in the shack, stayed awake for days. I had planned to destroy the schematics on how to operate the portal. But I needed help. There was a complication in my process, a wild card I hadn’t accounted for. I fell into the portal, and was left to wander the multiverse for decades.”

Bill sat in silence, fingers pressed together, forefingers resting against his brow, thumbs bracing his chin. He didn’t move. Still, disturbingly still.  

“I pushed you into the portal…I remember that. God…how could I forget?” Bill sounded distraught. He pushed off the bed, pacing to the door and covering his mouth with his hands.

_No…_

“No, Stan did. Though I’m sure you were there..”

“God, Sixer, I pushed you. I pushed you and I was too dumb to figure out where you hid the other two journals. I spent weeks just trying to turn the damn thing on. Years looking for any trace of anything you might have left there. Decades trying to decipher yer damn codes.” He was chewing on his thumbnails.

_No._

Stanford was lost. “What?”

Bill ignored him. “And then the boy finds in less than a week in town. Fuckin’ Giedion found the second one! Jesus, thought I have a heart attack when Dipper hands me the on eh found.” 

_NO!_

“Wait…Stan?”

“Yeah…?”

_Please, no._

“Bill?”

“I said what?”

A strangled sound escaped Stanford’s lips. _Please….please let this be wrong._

“But….you, you were Bill, just a second ago? How?”

_No. NO, no, no, no, no, no._

“Poindexter, what are you talkin’ about? It’s been me this whole time. I’ve always been me.”

“But…before…you…you were…”

“I was a little confused. You said yerself, trauma can do that. I’m…still a little fuzzy, but, it’s mostly there.” He sounded so cognizant. So clear. There was no interruption in cognition that might signal a change of consciousness. Nothing. This was one person.

_I don’t want this!_

 “And…fer the record,” Stanford broke from his thoughts to turn fully to Stan. “I do care about ya.”

It was more than one old man should be allowed to take. It was a blur. He was up and across the room in what seemed like milliseconds. His fist connecting with tissue and bone, bare Newtons away from dislocating Stan’s jaw. But he didn’t have the pleasure of savoring the sound; blue light flashed across his eyes and white heat slashed across his cheek. Sharp, radiating. He’d been burned.

He felt the blood drip down his face. He saw the horror in Stan’s eye. A shaky hand reached out and covered the gash on his left cheek. He could feel the sharp exhales across his face, his lips. Too much carbon dioxide and too little oxygen in the tiny space between them. It was suffocating. And Stan’s touch burned, sharp pain from suddenly frayed nerve endings. Slowly, like a match trying to catch flame in a strong wind, tiny blue lights, cold as ice, grew from Stan’s fingertips.

Stan had so little magic left that he was forced to pinch the skin closed and hold it while the flames sealed the gash. It was painstaking. His fingers trembling, his skin white.

Stanford just stood, drained, unflinching, unmoving. He couldn’t deal with this anymore. Sailing home, sinking the boat, it didn’t matter which. One way or another, this had to end. He had never liked to think on it before, but he was old. Too old. Too tired. Too beaten. And life just kept throwing him curve ball after curve ball. He should be used to it by now.

But this. This was it. The final proverbial straw. He couldn’t deal with this. This, half Bill, half Stan hybrid that just tore his heart to shreds and gut punched him in the next breath. He was done with this.

And yet the idea of walking away hurt more than all the injuries he’d suffered combined.

Something, anything, had to give.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Stan cupped his face, thumb tracing over the newly formed scar. Permanent. Too little magic drained too fast. Stanford watched, detached, surreal, as Stan held him. His words barely registering.

“This can’t happen. I’m not safe. I don’t have control. I’m not safe around you. This can’t… _I_ can’t…”

Stanford griped Stan’s hands in his, lifting them away from his face. He studied Stan, holding his hands in the space between them, ignoring the blood drying on his skin.

“I…might have an idea.”

*~*

It takes him almost an hour and a half, painstakingly slow work, and concentration, but he did it. He’s ready to pass out again and he feels like his insides are numb, but he did it. He was able to pull five long strands of unicorn hair from the ether and waited with baited breath as Ford examined it to confirm that it was indeed real unicorn hair. Neither of them were prepared for him to make a second attempt.  

Ford carefully took the strands and wove them together in a tight braid, inserting tiny moonstone pebbles between the strands like beads. It was really quite beautiful. Stan watched Ford work, dexterous fingers making small and complex movements and weaving the strands tightly. He finished by rolling the braid in liquid mercury, carefully poured out of a small vial. It glowed brightly, emitting a glowing sphere of light with protective symbols.

When it was finished, Ford held it out to him to take. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but if his magic was this unstable, it was a small price to pay to keep Ford safe. He wasn’t going to bring up his preferred alternative again. He wasn’t sure where Ford had put the pistol, and he wasn’t about to ask.

He reached for the necklace, but when his fingertips came within a hairs breath from the fibers, it repelled him, glowing bright and forming a protective sphere around Ford’s hands. He yanked his hand back, examining the skin of his fingers. They glowed and felt as though it was burned. He sucked on the offended skin to ease the pain. He watched as Ford frowned at the braid, twirling it between his fingers as if he could read the fibers like an ancient text. Their eyes met after a moment. Ford looked defeated, like his whole world had ended.

He stood abruptly, making his way around the side of the table to kneel in front of Stan.

“I’ll have to put this on you. I don’t know what it’s going to do. It could kill you, it could do nothing. I have no way of knowing.”

Stan gulped. He supposes that the worst thing it could do is kill him. It might not even be so bad. Dying the last time just felt like he was glitching out, getting light-headed and falling to bits. Can’t be worse than that, right?

“Okay.” There was no backing out.

“Do you trust me?” He can’t believe Ford would even bother asking. He doesn’t deserve the courtesy. It doesn’t matter.

And yes, Stan trusts Ford more than anyone else.

“Always.”

Ford nodded, leaning forwards enough to wrap his arms around Stan’s neck, carefully holding the braid aloft so it didn’t touch Stan’s skin. His extra fingers helping to tie the intricate knot in the fine fibers.

Stan could feel Ford's warm breath on his face. He was scant few inches away. As much as he wanted to, as enticing as it was, he held still. He didn't lean forward. He didn't stare at Ford's lips. Didn't become acutely aware that he was still naked. Didn't feel a stab of guilt when Ford's voice echoed in his ears, begging him to stop. Didn't feel a thrill when Ford's moans of pleasure echoed after. Didn't think about how wonderful it felt to hear Ford's laugh again, to see his smile again. To be able to joke with him again. To be able to feel like things were finally going back to normal. To the way things used to be.

Back when Ford loved him.

It should be enough for him to just have Stanford back in his life. It should be enough that they had reconciled. It should be enough that he had his best friend back after so many years apart.

But he couldn't forget the sight of Ford's eyes as they lit up when they saw him. Couldn't forget dazzling the man with his knowledge. Couldn't forget how adorably shy Sixer was when he realized he was attracted to...to who he used to be.

He missed it. He missed having someone there. He missed not being alone all the time. It took the kids showing up on his doorstep to remind him how alone he'd been for so long. It took Stanford summoning him all those years ago to remind him he had been alone for too many centuries. He would have never admitted it back then.

It was like being electrocuted when the braid finally settled against his neck. He jolted, muscles spasming and sending vibrations down his spine, through his limbs to discharge into the floorboards. Gentle fingers pressed against the braid, trailing, tracing the curve of the necklace, pausing at the nodes of moonstone. He shivered, even with the ward sending vibrations through him.

The lips that followed turned the electricity into heat. Ford pressed hesitant kisses on the braid, faint moisture soaking into Stan's skin. His heart stuttered, fluttered, and beat a rapid staccato against his ribs. His fingertips glowed as blue flames struggled to catch. They flickered, pulsating, and died. The ward was effective.

But neither noticed. The hesitant lips grew bolder, pressing fully, scraping on his stubble. Hands clasped his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles underneath. He panted, heaving breaths gasped out, his mouth dry. Stan gripped his thighs, fingers digging deep bruises, crescent welts bringing blood to the surface. The lips turned to teeth, first light nips, then sharp bites. A lava hot tongue swiped over his skin before Ford bit down. His hands jumped to Ford's waist.

A deep growl rumbled from Ford's chest that shook him to his core. He failed to bite back a whimper. Ford sucked with fierce intensity.

"Sixer..." His guttural plea pulled Ford back to the present. He pulled away with another growl that would haunt Stan's dreams. 

Ford leaned closer, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes still closed. Stan watched his eyelids twitch, flutter.

He swears he can taste the mercury on Ford's breath.              


End file.
